


In A Fix

by theproblematique



Category: Supernatural
Genre: A Gazebo, Emotional Constipation, Give Sam a dog 2k15, M/M, Minor Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester, Pining, Raised apart Winchesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-04
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-04-12 21:34:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 42,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4495536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theproblematique/pseuds/theproblematique
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Smith is a 'fixer' for hire. He has kept his real name a secret from the hunter community for years in order to protect a younger brother that doesn't even know he exists. Unfortunately, that lasts until he's blackmailed into taking a job with the Moore family, who give him a week in their estate to break up their daughter's engagement to some no-name law student.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Before we begin, [here](http://afattribble.livejournal.com/16581.html) is the livejournal Masterpost in case anyone wants a prettier PDF download, more detailed warnings, etcetera  
> But most importantly!!! [HERE](http://siennavie.livejournal.com/74923.html) is the Art Post and you should shower siennavie with love because she has produced an embarrassment of riches for this story. Just look at the beautiful header :)
> 
>  

"Let me guess..." a voice says to his right. "You're a mystery wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a leather jacket that looks a little big on you."

Her accent is the first thing Dean takes in about the woman--British, without a doubt. The second thing is the way she slides onto the barstool next to his; spreading her thighs around the width of it and then lowering her hips over the seat, back arched to show off her generous breasts and elegant neck. She's wearing a slinky dress that sticks out hilariously in this small town dive and her smile says she knows it.

Dean raises his eyebrows in challenge. "You wanna play a guessing game?"

"I wanna _win_ a guessing game," she corrects with a wink. "I'm really good."

"I'm afraid you're gonna have to prove that."

She allows this, and starts without preamble.

"The coat's not yours."

Dean tilts his head. "Technically true. It belonged to my dad."

"Oh." A hand reaches out to rest on his forearm. "I'm sorry. Your father passed away?"

"Yeah. Long time ago, though." He shrugs, throws her a smirk before his next sip of beer to show he's fine with it. "Next?"

"That gorgeous Impala sitting outside is yours."

Oh, he likes her. "Damn right."

She nods appreciatively. "I knew it. Hmm..." she pretends to think deeply, a finger tapping . "You're only passing through town."

"Correct."

"Your job keeps you on the road a lot. Permanently, even?"

"Yup."

"Favorite meal involves enough cholesterol to risk a coronary, but it's a risk you're willing to take."

He chuckles. "Damn, sweetheart. You weren't kidding about playing to win."

Something about his use of the endearment doesn't appear to sit quite right with her though; the smile on her lips remains but her eyes suddenly seem... colder.

"One more?"

"Be my guest."

She leans her head on the arm she's propped up at the bar.

"You have a little brother."

The words are spoken casually, but by their very nature operate as a threat. Dean's heart-rate kicks up to a hundred, sudden shuddering chill coming over him as he takes that in. "What?"

The smile becomes a grin. It looks threatening on bright red lipstick.

"You have a little brother," she repeats. She sounds so sure that she’s right, like she’s sounded every other time.

Dean's fucked.

"What are you--"

"Don't lie to me, Dean."

And that cements the reality that this is no longer a game.

"I never told you my name," he says, low.

"And yet here we are." She leans forward a little more and it's all Dean can do not to lean back, away. Clearly she's deriving some sort of enjoyment from this--from toying with him. Large green eyes search his face for a flicker of fear, and seem satisfied enough to find it. "I know a lot about you, Dean Smith. Or should I say... Dean Winchester?"

Dean's stomach drops. _Shit_.

"I know about your jacket and your car... I also know about your parents--what happened to them." He can't even flinch at that. "I know what you do for a living, and I know what you do in your free time, as well."

She comes even closer, close enough that even though her next words are spoken in a whisper he hears every single one:

"I know about Sam."

The name stabs between his ribs and into his heart.

"Who the hell are you?"

The woman uncrosses her legs and stands up, suddenly businesslike and seemingly impervious to the violence Dean must irradiate as his entire world feels like it's tilting sideways.

"My name is Bela Talbot, and I'm here to offer you a job."

"A... what?"

Dean is sure he didn't hear her right.

"A job. They call you a 'fixer', correct? You get paid to take care of a particular brand of problem?"

How does she know Sam's name? How does she know about Sam's _existence_?

"I don't--"

"Spare me the denials, Dean, obviously my research is thorough enough. After all, your brother's identity was no easy feat to uncover." She smirks. "And yet I did."

"How did you--"

"That's not important right now, but be sure I intend to use Sam as a bargaining chip should it come to that. Something tells me you don't want the hunter community to find out about him, hm?"

 _Shit_. He wasn't expecting--but then again she doesn't look like any sort of hunter Dean knows, and he's familiar enough with the range of plaid-wearing loners who take care of the things that go bump in the night. Who the hell is this chick?

"What do you want from me."

"I told you, it's a business opportunity. The people I represent have need of your skillset, and I'm just here to make sure you plan on taking the job."

Her eyes are intent on his face, making sure she's getting through to him. She's pulled out all the stops to make sure he says yes, so there's something in it for her for sure. She needs him--and it has to be Dean, _specifically_.

What _he_ needs is to find out how she knows about his brother.

"I'm not doing anything unless you tell me who the hell you are."

She huffs out a breath through her nose. "Stubborn, aren't we?"

"S'what I'm best known for, darling." That earns him a glare, as he'd suspected it would. "What do you know about Sam?"

"That's for you to find out only so long as you do as you're told." She hands him a slim white card with her contact information on it. It says Bela Talbot is an antiques dealer. Yeah _right_. "Don't use it. I'll be calling you."

"You think I'm letting you walk out of here--"

"Darling, please think carefully on how you make that threat." She pats her purse, which looks like it's made of real leather but also like it could fit a small-caliber gun. "Do this and we can have another talk in the near future, all right?"

Dean has had enough of this. It's his turn to stand up.

He's got a good foot on Bela and he abuses the height difference with no more than a passing bit of remorse. She's dangerous and a threat and what's worse: she's not even a little bit afraid.

"How about we talk now?" he growls. "Or this turns into a good-ol' fashioned Western draw?"

He glances pointedly at the arm he's got bent and ready to reach for the 9-mil tucked into the back of his jeans.

"With ten civilians in the room? I don't think so." And then she adds: "Besides, you've got to wonder what else I know about Sam. His age, his height... his address..."

She smirks again when she catches the look on his face and starts to turn away. Dean grabs her wrist in desperation, aware of the image such a gesture instantly invokes and the fact that even in this context it's a dick move.

"If you hurt him, I' _mph_ \--" She presses a firm finger to his lips, smushing his words and cutting him off mid-sentence. It might look flirtatious to an outsider but her nail digs into the plush skin in a way that threatens to draw blood.

"Remember: if you want to find out what I know and how I came to know it, do as I say."

Then she's strutting away and he can only watch, helpless, as she takes all the answers with her.


	2. One

Dean Winchester doesn't exist.

Dean _Smith_ has the nearest thing to a legitimate passport and social security number, but his multiple fakes are close seconds to that identity and equally interchangeable. He's had lots of names and lots of jobs, none of them real. According to the law, Dean Winchester died in the house fire that killed both his parents and younger brother on November 2nd, 1983.

How a woman he's never even heard of managed to unearth a long-buried identity like it was nothing, Dean has no idea. Why she's doing it, even less so.

In some circles, he's known only as a 'fixer'.

Dean didn't assign himself that pseudonym, and if you heard otherwise then you should know that Jo Harvelle is a liar.

He's hardly cornered the market, but being brought up by hunters lends him an edge nobody else in the business has. Dean's not afraid to use charms to cheat during a negotiation. He's not above a curse or two when it suits him to take down a mark. Bela was right about him being something of a professional problem solver.

Over the years he has developed a reputation for getting the job done--so long as he thinks it's worth doing. A few cases have had overlap with the supernatural, but most of the time humans do monstrous things all on their own. Words like 'vigilante' have been thrown around (it's Jo's favorite term of endearment) but he's fine with that, too. He's not a hunter and he's not a civilian; technically he's not Batman either, but... he's kind of totally Batman. A Batman who gets paid in cash because Bruce Wayne didn't grow up in hunters' spare rooms without two bucks to his name.

Word of mouth about this bounty hunter with a conscience has spread the tale effectively enough that he finds himself travelling all over the country without a discernible pattern. It's a drifter lifestyle, and Dean likes it that way. He'd been planning on keeping it that way, too.

And now it's all been shot to shit.

" _I can't say I like the feelin' of this, Dean_."

"Can't say I do either, Bobby, but here we are."

He taps his ring on the dashboard of the Impala, _toc-toc-toc_ sound of his nerves as he sits there waiting. The house looming ahead of him is gigantic, and deserving of the term 'estate' it boasts on the address.

" _She knew about Sam_?"

"Yup. Dunno how much, though." _You have a little brother_. She already knows way too much. More than anyone should.

" _And this job she wants you for... any idea what it involves_?"

"About to find out, aren't I?"

In exactly fifteen minutes, actually. He got the call first thing this morning and Bela had only said to be at this address at exactly twelve o'clock. Until he has more information Dean's gonna have to grit his teeth and go with it.

" _I'd feel much more comfortable with this if you'd taken backup, Dean. For all we know some hunter's out to get me and using you as bait_."

"You flatter yourself, old man." In truth, Bobby has a point (especially given the disdain the community has for Bobby Singer's too-good-for-hunting protégé) but Dean's not about to admit that and let him worry. "If anyone's in danger of a hunter with a grudge I'm pretty sure it's yours truly. Maybe Wendell finally found out about his daughter n'me."

There's a dark chuckle on the other end of the line, just as Dean intended. Far as he knows Stephen Wendell doesn't have that backwards shotgun mentality but Bobby doesn't need to know that.

" _Jo would've had your back_."

"Couldn't risk it." The stakes are too high. "She said to come alone."

A static-y sigh crackles over the line, letting him know Bobby's about to get into it in a real way. Dean's heard it a million times, always coming from those same worried eyes and a tone that suggests increasing fear as the speech falls on deaf ears year after year. _You need to stop obsessing over that kid's safety, Dean. Sam is out there living his life, don't you think your folks'd want you to move on with yours?_

Bobby doesn't get it. No one does.

" _Look, Dean... I know how you feel about your brother_ \--"

A beep right in his ear makes Dean flinch away from his phone. He squints at the screen for a second and then realizes ' _Scary British Chick'_ is calling him on the other line. "I-I gotta go Bobby. Talk later."

" _Be caref_ \--"

He hangs up on Bobby and answers the new call immediately.

"Yeah."

" _Hello Dean_."

"Well if it isn't my favorite blackmailer."

A surprisingly authentic chuckle sounds at the other end. " _Aw, and you're my favorite blackmail-ee. Ready for your interview_?"

"I don't even know what I'm interviewing for."

" _Relax: my instructions are simple. You are to take the job, regardless of what that entails, and you are not to admit you know who Sam is, should his name come up at any point. Wesson or Winchester. You got that_?"

"What?" he sits up abruptly in a creak of leather. "Why would these people mention Sam? Do they know him?"

" _You'll find out soon enough. Now go, before you're late. And remember, if you want your brother to stay safe, you'd better not fumble this. I told my employers you were the man for the job_."

She hangs up before he can reply.

*

The demon had been after the baby of the house, that much they knew.

Yellow-Eyes did something to Sammy before John and Mary could prevent it; something that set Sam apart from other children. Something that made it imperative that Sam be raised away from the supernatural world, and especially away from demonic activity.

Dean never found out the specifics of what had happened to his brother that night. He considered digging in that direction for only a moment, and instantly got a call from Missouri Moseley telling him to drop it. _Drop it now, Dean. Lest any of those black-eyed critters start sniffing around the boy again._

He never let himself consider the issue again.

Sam had to be protected. Sam had to stay safe.

*

"Good evening, Mr. Smith. Welcome to the Moore estate."

Both the size and the location of the house should have really clued Dean in, but he honestly hadn't expected a maid at the door when he rang the bell.

He's... maybe a little underdressed.

"Mr. and Mrs. Moore are waiting for you in the office. Follow me, please."

The girl walks off without checking to see that she's being followed, so Dean has to settle for the fast-forwarded version of the quick look around.

The inside of the house is surprisingly modern, if lacking a certain lived-in feeling--something Dean has come to associate with the obscenely-rich interior decorating style. The furniture wouldn’t look out of place in a magazine cover (and might have legitimately been featured in one, come to think of it) and even the lamp stands have a sleek vertical design; no chandeliers here. The only old-fashioned vestige of the historic house is a grand marble staircase that spills out into the spacious entryway, seemingly in wait of a woman in a ball gown to descend it. A set of double doors left ajar offers a peek at the living room, flat-screen TV mounted on a far wall.

"This way."

They walk down a corridor decorated with pictures hung on the walls. A gorgeous girl grins at him from every single photo; all taken at different times in her life but unmistakably of the same person. He doesn't really have time to take her in but he can't quite shake the impression that her giant smile dims the older she gets.

Or maybe he's just projecting his own bullshit onto a stranger's life. What does he know.

"Here."

The maid motions towards the only possible door facing them.

"Thanks." He’s about to turn the knob when she stops him.

“Knock first.” The _‘dumbass’_ is implied.

“Right.”

He does, and hears a commanding ‘come in’ from within. The maid’s already walking away so she misses the exaggerated care Dean takes opening the door. His sense of humor is wasted without an audience.

“Good evening, Mr. Smith.”

Two people are waiting for him in the largest home office Dean has ever seen in real life.

A floor-to-ceiling bookcase takes up an entire wall and full-length windows offer a view of the spectacular grounds on the other side. The glass reflects light in a way that makes Dean suspect it's bulletproof, so cross out that potential exit strategy. Three--nope, four computer screens and a laptop dominate the center of a huge table under the world's most unnecessary skylight. He almost wants to ask where the minigolf clubs are.

"My name is Miranda, and this is my husband Carl."

“Howdy.” He still has no fucking clue exactly what he’s doing here, but they’d better not expect him to behave. He's way too on edge after Bela's parting comment.

“Please, sit down.”

The woman behind the giant mahogany desk doesn’t move to get up but her husband does, walking over to stand at her shoulder and thus vacating a seat for Dean in the guest chair. No thanks.

“I’m good at standing.”

He grins because that came out vaguely dirty, but it falls flat.

“Up to you.” Miranda Moore has a near-perfect fake smile, a square jaw and a tall, stocky build. “Well, we should get right to it, hm? We’re told you're the man to see about the odd little job."

' _The odd little job_ '.

She's just short of being a good enough actress to pull off the naive housewife persona. The apologetic tilt to her eyebrows doesn’t match the imposing cut of her suit, and the "Esq." after her name on the plaque tells a different story. There’s no use in her pretending she doesn’t know exactly what he does, or that what she needs him for is far from something innocent.

"Came highly recommended, did I?"

"I don't know about highly, but we're not going to ask for anything too complicated." She smiles a little broader, a patronizing lilt to it that Dean can’t help but resent.

"I'm thinkin' I'll be the judge of that, if it's all the same to you."

The look the Moores exchange at that adds a layer of tension in the room.

"Look, Mr. Smith..."

"You can call me Dean," he says magnanimously.

Carl Moore takes this in stride, visibly. He's less subtle than his wife. "Dean, then. What we're asking... it's really basic PI stuff."

"Maybe you should hire a PI, then."

"We need more than a PI," Miranda says, brushing a lock of platinum-blonde hair behind her ear. "And Ms. Talbot said you were the type of person who knows how to handle issues that are... delicate. This issue requires particular delicacy, Mr. Smith."

Her eyes flicker to his dirty nails, mistrustful of his capacity to handle things with care.

“It's about a matter that’s very dear to our hearts."

Dean raises an eyebrow. "Okay?"

They exchange another look and then Carl says: "Our daughter is getting married."

"Congratulations."

"Not so fast. We haven't decided if she's going to go through with it yet."

What? "Huh?"

“It's complicated. But the details will come once you've been so kind as to sign this.” Miranda pushes a sheet of paper towards him. Some sort of non-disclosure agreement, probably. Not the first one Dean’s ever been handed, working ‘ _odd little jobs_ ’ like he does. "Confidentiality is, of course, essential."

"You haven't even told me what the job is yet. I ain't signing NDA’s without a blurb, at least."

"I'd like you to sign _before_ we give away our personal information, Mr. Smith. You have to understand--"

"I think you're the one who doesn't understand." The tension in the room kicks up another notch. "I'm not signing anything until I know what I'm getting into."

For a moment, it looks like Miranda is going to insist, but then she forces another tight smile and digresses.

"Fine."

She nods to her husband and Carl hands Dean the folder he'd been holding.

"Open it."

The envelope hasn’t been sealed, and Dean takes out the single sheet of paper it contains. There are two images printed out on it. A bright photo takes up the upper half of the page, and under it is a screenshot of a Facebook profile.

Dean's heart lurches, or maybe it's his stomach. This is it.

Sam is the job.

In the top picture, Sam's close-mouthed smile and is directed at someone off-frame. It's a candid shot that appears to have been taken from behind a bush or tree, amateur style. Sam looks almost eerily sunlit, bangs casting a gentle shadow down to his cheekbones and hiding his eyes, and he's carrying a stupidly large amount of textbooks in his arms. The resolution's not good enough to dissect his expression for degrees of happiness, or self-actualization, or stress.

The lower half of the page tells another side of the same story. Sam's Facebook profile picture is a selfie with his dog where the only visible parts of him are his collarbones, the rest of his torso enveloped in a Stanford Law hoodie; his face out of frame. The top post on his wall is from someone called Brady Larkin, and apparently Sam needs to _'stop studying u overachieving golden boyyyy WE MISS U_ '.

Both images are too much and not enough of something that lives in the deepest, most fragile, most guarded niche of Dean's mind. And Dean Winchester has been sucker punched before; he's been shot, stabbed, bitten, and, memorably, _candelabra_ 'd.

This is worse than all those combined.

This is two pieces of the puzzle that is Dean's little brother, unexpectedly presented to him in tandem with no account for their power to undo his every last defense.

"This is Sam Wesson. As of last week, he is also my daughter's fiancé."

Expression kept carefully blank, Dean nods absent-mindedly.

"They are driving up here over spring break for the engagement party and staying with us the whole week. In that time, we'd like you to work undercover and get us as much information as possible. We'll give you some fake job in the household so you have an excuse to follow him, but the important thing is that you report his activity to us. We want to know everything about him, and we need a dissection of every skeleton in his closet."

What Dean needs is for them not to figure out how close he is to puking.

"You want me to vet some frat boy for you?" he manages to say.

"This frat boy thinks he's going to marry my daughter," Miranda says icily. She finally seems to have dropped any pretense of being sugar-coated. "His suitability is in question, and we want you to get us the information we need to stop the wedding."

"His 'suitability'?" Dean echoes. The air quotes are silent.

"As the sole recipient of our considerable wealth, Jessica has been courted by moneygrabbers before," the husband says. Dean almost laughs in their faces. Sam is better than anyone the Moores have ever come _near_ ; if he wants to marry this girl he's not doing it for money. "He could be into drugs, or have a record..."

Dean puts the paper back in its envelope so he can try to think again. "Look..." he starts. "I don't know what Bela told you, but I'm not exactly a professional wedding crasher. My line of work is way less festive."

"We are prepared to pay as much as it takes to be sure our daughter is going to be safe and happy."

Dean figures this Jessica chick would be the one to know best what makes her feel safe and happy, but that's their issue. He shrugs to get back some of his air of disinterest.

"Still think you'd be better off with a PI."

"If he's not right for her, we expect you to do something about it."

"Do what, exactly?"

"We'd expect you to dispose of him, if that's what we decide is necessary."

Dean's eyebrows fly up at that, even as his heart keeps thumping uncomfortably fast against his ribs. 'Dispose' is one hell of a word choice.

"Are you... is this you putting 'murder' on the menu?"

To Miranda's credit, the question doesn't faze her. "No. Jessica would be upset. We'll come up with something else."

Dean nods. There's a pause as the exchange of information seems to sink in.

"So you'll do it."

He can't say no. Bela made that very clear and she has him by the short and curlies. But this means... he's going to see Sam again. Meet whoever it is that Sam's become.

This job is going to change everything.

Dean really doesn’t want to puke on these rich people’s carpet.

He looks down at the sheet of paper in his hands; the two snapshots of Sam's life. Sam is a person, now. An adult, doing adult things like studying and getting married to rich heiresses, apparently. He's made a place for himself in the world and he has no idea that monsters are real; he must be so happy and settled. And, despite all the sacrifices Dean's made in order for that to happen, danger has managed to find him anyway.

Which means Dean's gotta risk screwing up this kid's life in order to make sure Sam at least gets to live one.

Miranda lets out an impatient breath. "Mr. Smith, let's make one thing clear right now. We know your pressure points. Or point, I should say."

"I doubt that."

It's a bad sign that her smile only grows at that answer. "Fine, we don't know what it is. But we know that you have one. And Ms. Talbot has assured us that she is willing to press as hard as it takes, so understand this: you either do as we say, or I pick up the phone and tell Bela to _push_."

Dean has been trying to play this meeting like he holds more cards than he does, but Miranda Moore's smile is a clear reflection of her awareness that she owns the entire deck.

Dean takes one last look at Sam's smiling face.

_You've got to wonder what else I know about Sam. His age, his height... his address..._

There was never an actual choice, right?

"... Okay."

The husband stands a little straighter. "Okay, you'll do it?"

"Yeah. I'll do it."

"Wonderful." Miranda stands back up and extends her hand to shake his. Dean allows himself a second's hesitation before taking it.

It feels like he just made a deal with the devil, even though he knows for a fact that they are standing far from the nearest crossroads.


	3. Two

Sam Winchester was ripped from Dean's arms as a baby, and given up for adoption immediately after. Bobby made sure to explain to a distraught, screaming four-year-old multiple times that this was for Sam's own good, so that he would be safe. He told Dean this over and over and _over_ while Dean cried himself to sleep every night, wanting the little bundle back, worried sick that Sammy's new family wouldn't know to kiss him goodnight on the forehead.

"When can I see Sam?" Dean would ask every day. And every day Bobby would say 'soon, hopefully', until so many days had passed that it had been a year.

Dean didn't stop asking. He missed Sam, he ached with it. His little brother was out there and Dean was in Rufus' smelly cabin and he missed Mom and Dad and it wasn't _fair_.

And then one morning, a million days later, Bobby said Dean was ready to know the truth. The real truth about the night everything went wrong.

The fire that killed his parents had been caused by a bad guy, Bobby told him. Six and three-quarters was grown up enough to understand that Sam needed to be protected from the bad guy's friends, right Dean? The bad guy's friends weren't happy that their leader had died and Sam had escaped. That was why Dean couldn't see Sam anytime soon. Maybe not ever. John and Mary had died defeating the bad guy so bravely, and now Dean needed to be just as brave, all right? Sam would miss him too of course, would miss him lots, but the more days that passed with Dean being brave the easier it would be for both of them.

Days turned into weeks turned into months and years, and missing Sam became one more part of Dean. He was a teenager by the time he figured out that making sure Sam stayed safe could be done without seeing him.

It was how he got good at what would eventually become his future job. Looking for Sam by revisiting ancient clues and hunting down every scrap of information he could find. Learning to weaponize his looks, his charm, his ability to lie his way into police records and hard-copy databases. It took Dean almost four years, but he got Sam's new name and address without a single hunter knowing about it, and then he took off to find his brother.

Sam was twelve, scrawny, and decent at football, but he was also distracted staring at the older kid on the other side of the fence and didn't see the full-body tackle coming. By the time he got back up, Dean had fled the scene.

All he was left was the memory of Sam’s narrow little shoulders in those huge pads, and a sense that he had to keep going, without taking too long to ask himself why.

It wasn’t a bad life. He embodied the definition of the word 'rogue' and chicks loved it; he drove a badass car and played mullet-rock as loudly as he wanted, and when this sidelined style of living got lonely he just had to remind himself that he got to save lives, sometimes. Living in the periphery provided anonymity and avoiding attatchments keept him mobile, free, safe--not like he ever found anyone he'd wanted to settle down for anyway so.

So why does it feel like he’s only just started living?

*

Dean's smartphone is being agonizingly slow to download the damn Facebook app. He doesn't know shit about this social media stuff, hasn't ever had a personal use for it and doesn't need it for his job when there are alternative methods for getting information with the resources in Bobby's basement at his disposal. But since the Moores have put the idea in his head he can't stop thinking about looking at what Sam's been doing for the past... well, ever.

Is Sam into decent music? Did someone teach him to drink beer and shoot darts? Is Law School kicking his ass--or is it the other way around? Has he travelled? Star Wars or Star Trek? Does he love a good burger as much as Dean does? Obviously he must like pie, otherwise they couldn't be related. Does he like to drive?

A shrink tried to tell him once that Dean was obsessed with the _concept_ of Sam, the idea of him, rather than the real person who had, after all, been a baby when they were separated. Too bad that entire conversation became moot when Dean saw Sam in person.

"Since when do you use your phone? Mom's been regretting giving you that thing since last Christmas."

"What? A man can't change his mind about technology? It's a free country."

Jo glares at him, fingers curled in a way that threatens one of her infamous Vulcan nerve-pinches. She's perfected the move over time, as being a hunter does not exclude being an asshole, and dudes in bars have a tendency to try to get fresh with pretty waitresses--once.

"Then why the hell didn't you use it to call me?" she demands.

"I had it handled."

"You had it...? Some Carmen Sandiego wannabe comes up to you, offers you a job working for a couple on the Forbes List, and you don't think that calls for backup?"

Dean takes a long swig of his beer, starting to feel pretty pissed off himself. He shouldn't have told her the truth, but Jo's one of the four people who know Sam even exists (Bobby, Ellen and Missouri Moseley being the remaining trio) and it's not like Dean has a ton of friends to talk to about this particular problem. Not like Dean has a ton of friends to talk to _period_ , but that's--that's not the point. The most important thing is that Sam needs to stay safe, and the secret of his existence cannot get out.

"How the hell are you going to investigate Sam without interacting with him?"

"I'll figure something out."

"By tonight?"

"I'll work out a quick cover; it's not like he'll recognize me."

He pauses midway to his next sip because the headache he'd been hoping to drink away is just getting worse. The more he thinks about his upcoming gig the more it feels like a golem is squeezing his temples. He's pretty sure Jo knows that behind the devil-may-care barricade is a cowering mess and it grates in ways Dean's not fucking comfortable with. Torn between choking anticipation and paralyzing terror, his desperate need to finally be near Sam keeps getting overshadowed by the fear that he's going to fuck up and get his little brother killed, either by the Bela chick or the demons he's been protecting Sam from his whole life--

The sudden cold-wet feeling over his crotch makes him realize the glass sloshed beer onto his jeans.

"Wow. That looks like you peed yourself."

"Don't you have some refills to pour or something?"

Jo opens her mouth to retort but before she can say anything Ellen has sidled up to them on the other side of the bar.

"Go serve some tables, honey," she says firmly. "I gotta talk to Dean for a sec."

"Dean's an ungrateful shit who can't accept a hand even when he needs it," Jo snaps. "He doesn't deserve us trying to help him out." And then she pinches him for good measure before walking away.

Dean maintains a complete poker-face before he's sure she's not going to turn back, and then he lets out a low hiss of pain.

"Holy shit, that stings," he mutters, rubbing at his neck. Ellen just shrugs. "You know no one's gonna wanna marry that girl if she keeps this up, right?"

"Maybe she doesn't want to marry anyone," she says dismissively. "You need to tell me about this British woman, Dean. Bobby said she knew your last name?" She leans in a bit closer. "Your real last name?"

"Yeah. You heard anything about a blackmailer targeting hunters? Looks like a cross between a Victoria's Secret model and a rich lady's cat?"

If anyone would know, it'd be Ellen. It's why he made the Roadhouse his last stop before moving his crap to the Moore estate for the next few days.

"I may have heard of a British bounty hunter that sold a rabbit's foot to a collector last year."

 _Antiques dealer, my ass_ , he thinks again. But his pulse picks up at Ellen's words, because that could be a lead.

"Bounty hunter, huh."

"Pretty girl, Olivia said. Knew her shit, never touched the thing."

"Olivia saw her in person?"

"Yup."

Dean nods. He doesn't have time to go pay Olivia a visit, but he's definitely going to give her a call later.

"S'not much, but this is all I got for now, kiddo. I'll keep an eye out, all right?"

"Thanks, Ellen. It's more than I expected. I really appreciate it."

Jo refuses to acknowledge his parting yell, which Dean takes in stride with a nod of his head. He got what he came for.

*

" _Hello, Dean_."

Bela sounds self-satisfied. The Moores probably already told her he'd said 'yes'.

"Hello to you too. Long time, no cryptic shit."

" _Long time? It's been two days._ " Bela's tone is perfectly balanced between flirtation and threat. " _Didn't know you cared_."

Dean finishes pulling his baby into park (having refused the valet’s offer to do it for him) and hunches down in his seat in case anyone's hanging around the enormous parking lot.

"I care about what you think you've got on Sam, as you seem pretty well aware," he mutters into his cell. Playing it off like he doesn't give a shit whether Sam lives or dies at this point would probably be too little too late, and it isn't really his style anyway.

" _It's not about what I think, Dean, it's about what I know. But I'm not telling yet_."

"What the hell do you want from me?"

She 'tut-tut's, which honestly was something Dean figured people had stopped doing a couple of centuries ago. " _You can keep asking me that, but I'm not going to change my answer. We're going to take this step by step, Dean. You took the job with the Moores, and for now all I want is for you to do it."_

"They want me to play house," he grits out. "Investigate my--Sam. Follow him around, report to them about what he's--"

There's a tap against the window of the Impala and Dean flinches so violently he drops his phone.

It doesn't matter, because Bela is the one standing on the other side.

"What the _fuck_ ," Dean pants, and shoves the door open--but not quickly enough to hit her. She moves fast.

"Hi there." Her smirk is disturbingly wide.

"You wanna use my skills for your evil agenda or you wanna give me a goddamn heart attack, woman?"

He notes out of his peripheral vision that they do seem to be completely alone in the garage building. It's less reassuring than he'd hoped; the small door is too far for him to run to, and the main gate automatically rolled down after his baby went through, so if he finds himself having to run he's pretty screwed on the 'where to' front.

"Oh come on. You know as well as I do that a life of crime isn't exactly low-stress. I've got to get my kicks _somehow_."

Dean glares at her, still kind of catching his breath but trying not to let it show. He gets his ‘kicks’ making bets with himself on whether he’ll get to go down on the hottest person in a bar, not by acting like a freaking sadist.

This morning Bela has dressed much more soberly that the last time they met, having paired her blue dress with a double-breasted jacket and an elaborate neckerchief that drapes over her torso. She still looks runway ready, though.

"I think it'll be good for us to have another little chat before we go into the house."

"Do you."

"Yes." She's carrying a larger purse today, and glances pointedly at it. Dean's gun is tucked into the passenger seat of his car and the knife tucked into his boot won’t stop a bullet, so he's pretty much fucked. A consistent state of being when it comes to him and Bela, apparently, and he doesn't like the trend that's forming here.

"So what's left to discuss?" he asks, leaning back against the car.

"Your upcoming role."

"I thought we'd already discussed that. They want me to follow Sam around, and if they decide he's unsuitable for their precious daughter, I'm supposed get rid of him--whatever the hell that means."

"Let's hope we won't have to find out. He should make it in one piece if you cooperate."

"Lady, he was doing just fine before you butted into our lives. How could you possibly benefit from this situation? Why the hell did you have to involve him? He's just a civilian, you know that, right?"

Bela shrugs lightly. "I have my reasons. But Sam was never just a civilian, honey. It was always in his blood."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"You just won't give up, will you? I'm not a Bond villain, Dean; I'm. Not. Telling." She enunciates the words like he's three. "Now, some ground rules for the house." A perfectly manicured hand is held up for her to list them off on her fingers. "Number one: you don't know Sam. I haven't told the Moores who he is in relation to you, and if you want it to stay that way then you'd better act that beating hand-grenade you call a heart out."

Dean snorts, but he'd been expecting that one so he doesn't comment.

"Number two: you do everything I tell you."

"I got that part."

"I _mean_ ," she stresses. "You wear what I want you to, you follow my lead without question, and you cut out that damn attitude or I'm posting a Demon's Most Wanted ad with your brother's face at every hunter dive I know."

He glares but doesn't comment on that either.

"Number three: you don't know Sam."

"That was number one--"

"Number three: you don't tell _Sam_ you know who he is either. If I'm not mistaken, you're the only one out of the two of you who knows you're brothers. Or, indeed, any of Sam's backstory."

She knows too much, _how does she know all this_.

"So I'm your lapdog this entire week."

"Essentially."

"What happens after?"

She quirks an eyebrow. "After?"

"After the engagement party, when Sam and his fiancée leave and it's just you and me again?"

Bela smiles again, and this time is different. Dean almost flinches at the sight, probably the first real expression she's let him see. Her eyes glint with something cold and hard, like diamonds.

"Like I said. That's for you to find out as long as you do what you're told."

And she spins around in such a perfectly executed twirl that Dean can't even mock her penchant for dramatic exits. Heels clacking on cement rhythmically, the door swinging open then slamming shut and resonating throughout the cavernous room; she freaking nails them.

*

"Please, wait here a moment Mr. Smith."

The maid leaves him standing in the entryway with his duffle and disappears in the direction of the Moores’ office. She's back less than a minute later with a gorgeous woman in a charcoal-grey suit and a tablet.

"Mr. Smith?"

"The one and only."

The woman lets out a tiny sigh before donning a professional smile. "Welcome to the Moore estate. My name is Tamara and I'd like to talk to you before you get settled if that's all right."

Tamara has a polished British accent and short spiky hair. Dean has to tell himself Britain is a large place and there's no reason to connect this chick to Bela, but she still puts him instantly on edge.

"I'm sure I'd like to talk to you too. What about, though?"

Behind Tamara, the maid rolls her eyes and walks off. Tamara herself just says: "I'm Miranda's assistant."

"But you're not wearing glasses," Dean points out with a grin. "You know that immediately disqualifies you from your job, right?"

"I switched to contacts in my teens," she replies. "Please, follow me."

They walk into the empty living room.

"I'm the only person besides Mr. and Mrs. Moore who knows what your real job is this week. It should stay that way, yes?"

"No problem."

He lets himself drop onto the comfortable couch and turns to face her, giving her the illusion of his undivided attention.

"We've had quite a few new additions to the household staff recently, so it should be easier for you to blend in. I'm still trying to figure out where to fit you in but I'll have something by midday. Jessica is set to arrive later this evening, so you'll have time to prepare."

This evening. Dean's pulse thunders. He'll see Sam in a matter of hours.

"I understand you aren't familiar with the way things are done in a household like this one, but the Moores are still quite traditional when it comes to the, uh, level of decorum expected of the staff. So in order to avoid suspicion I'd suggest you..." she gestures vaguely in his direction. "Tone it down a notch."

Dean smirks. "Tone what down, exactly?"

"Oh, just..." she shrugs. "Your whole... 'biker gang escapee' attitude? It won't fit in well here."

If someone were to call his reaction to those words 'preening', Dean would have to object. But he may have puffed out his chest a little.

"S'part of my charm, or so I've been told."

"Then you have been misled."

"I'm good at fitting in places. It's part of what I do."

"This isn't an easy world to navigate, Mr. Smith, and a week is plenty of time to slip up. I hope you've worked long cons before."

"Lady, there's not a lot I haven't done."

He throws in a wink for good measure but something about her tone tells him he's doing well to stay on guard. Something about the way she said _'I hope you've worked long cons'_ sounded like professional criticism, rather than clueless civilian curiosity. What would a personal aide know about long cons?

"I'm sure that's true, but I still need some form of reassurance."

Dean shrugs. "Not much I can give you 'sides my word, to tell you the truth. Guess you're just gonna have to trust me."

"Trust you?" Tamara continues to look unimpressed as she gets to her feet. "Trust a known con-man?"

"Not a con-man; a fixer. I solve problems, I don't create them."

She cocks her head to the side. "I believe you mean that, but I don't believe it's true." A sigh. "I'll be honest with you Mr. Smith; I never liked the idea of the Moores hiring someone from your line of work. I think you thrive in chaos and don’t know what to do with yourself outside of it. In short, the sort of man who enjoys trouble."

Dean stands up as well. If only she knew how right she is.

"Maybe trouble enjoys me."

*

Orientation with Tamara includes a tour of the estate, an actual document of 'do's and 'don't's for him to read after lunch, and an introduction to the random staff members they encounter along the way. Apparently most of them come in during the day and leave around six, but a few people do live in the house. Dean's going to be sharing the west wing with them (but he gets his own room, which is awesome).

Dean finds out the maid who hates him is called Stella and the cook's name is Gordon Walker, there's a butler, a horse-trainer and an on-call mechanic, and the law firm Mr. and Mrs. Moore run together must be rolling in dough.

By the time his stomach starts growling with hunger Dean thinks he's gotten a proper feel for the place and its stuck-up version of every-day grind.

"Preparation for Jess' arrival has everyone a little on edge, so my advice would be to just stay out of people's way today."

Dean's about to agree with gusto when he sees a blonde girl carrying a bunch of dirty laundry in a basket three times her size. A blonde girl he recognizes despite the black shirt and uniform pants she's wearing, given the fact that she usually favors a jeans-and-plaid combo when tending bar at her mom's Roadhouse.

He can't fucking believe--

"Ah, hi there Joanna. Dean, this is Joanna, another temporary hire like you. She's going to be helping around the house while Jessica and her fiancé stay with us."

"Nice to meet you."

Jo nods at him since it's obvious she can't wave and doesn't even spare them a second glance on her way to what must be the laundry room.

Dean can't believe Bobby and Ellen. He specifically said no back-up. He told them what was at stake. He warned them about what he'd--

"Dean? Everything all right?"

Dean grits his teeth and nods. "M'good. Where to next?"

*

"You had no fucking right."

The laundry-room door closes behind them and the light inside flickers on.

"You can't do everything alone, Dean," Jo hisses over the churning sound of the machine. "And this is dangerous shit, okay? If this _is_ the rabbit's foot chick she's powerful and she's smart. You're overly-invested and dumb."

"So you're here to monitor me?"

"I'm here to fucking _help_ you." She looks furious and frustrated and like she's trying really hard not to strangle him. "You ungrateful piece of _shit_."

They stare at each other, panting a little, and Dean's reminded of that time when they were teenagers and Jo was crushing on him so embarrassingly hard that it ended up jump-starting his on-the-road career.

"Fine," he ends up muttering. "M'sorry."

"What was that?"

Dean glares at her. "I'm sorry, Joanna-Beth," he enunciates clearly. "I sure do appreciate everything you're doing."

She starts to smile but Dean raises a warning finger in her face.

"But you better stay out of my way."

"Not making any promises." She side-steps him and skips to the door. Right before shutting it behind her she sticks her head back in. "I'm excited to meet your brother, though!"

"No way you--you stay away from him! Jo!"

But she's gone and left him standing there like an idiot. In the dark.

*

Okay, so this whole clusterfuck of a case was never going to be any fun. Right from the start, Dean knew that by doing as Bela said he was signing himself up for a world of pain, lies, and constant vigilance. He has to do the job the Moores want him for at the same time as he investigates Bela's motives, protects Sam from the supernatural community, and keeps his identity a secret. He can't imagine he's going to be able to sleep much over the coming week and Sam arriving in a couple of hours has him keyed up and frantic already.

That being said... his room is fucking awesome.

If this is what a guest staff member gets Dean really wants to check out what the hell the family rooms are like. Because his room is freaking huge. Bay windows let the sunlight stream in, with a view of the lawns and gardens sprawling around the front of the house in case Dean led the kind of life that allowed for him to sit and enjoy that sort of thing (spoiler alert: he really doesn’t). He has his own bathroom, plasma TV, closet, fancy-ass ceiling fan, and his mattress is made of _memory foam_.

When he sits down on the bed it molds to his ass instantly, and falling back onto it feels like sinking into dough. A decade of alternating the Impala’s back seat with low-cost motel rooms has inured him to neck-cricks and back-pain, but boy oh boy will this be therapeutic.

Sadly, because the universe seems to have a personal vendetta against Dean having a good time, someone knocks on his door ten seconds after he lies down.

It's Bela.

"Hello, Dean."

"Bela."

His brief surge of joy effectively soured, Dean is forced to let her in.

"What do you want."

Bela strides in and goes straight for the bed, tossing a plastic bag of nondescript origin on it followed by an empty-looking used briefcase.

"Your cover for the week. I've spoken to Tamara and the Moores about it, and it's been decided. I've brought you the props."

He crosses his arms over his chest and tips his chin expectantly. "So am I a bellboy or a gardener?"

"Ever heard of a gardener with a briefcase? You're neither." She smiles again. "I suggested that it might be fitting for you to play the role of my assistant."

"Your... seriously? But I don't know shit about antiques."

"I don't doubt that, but you don't actually need to know much about what I do to be an errand boy." She smiles meanly. "And anyway I'm not an antiques dealer this week. I've been hired to work with Jess and Sam on the wedding preparations."

Dean stares at her for a long moment, praying he heard wrong or that Bela is going to clarify her statement by adding an explanation that completely contradicts it somehow.

"...What."

"If they like my proposal, I'm going to be the wedding planner. And you're going to be my PA. That means getting everybody coffee, running into town for fabric samples, carrying my dossiers... and following Sam and Jess around wherever they go. It's the perfect cover, really."

He has to strongly fight the urge to growl: _'I'm Dean Winchester. I repel ceremonies associated with commitment, I'm allergic to ribbons and any event that involves the choice of cake over pie is inherently repulsive to me_.' He’s posed as a waiter, pretended to be a college student, a cop, an FBI agent, a lawyer, a trick, a single dad, and, once, a woman (he was eighteen, and it was only for like ten minutes). Never has he ever done the whole ‘submissive assistant’ schtick, and that’s because blending in isn’t the same thing as going unnoticed. People tend to notice him.

As seconds tick by and he doesn't answer, her expression shifts into open disdain.

"Don't worry, tiger, your dick's not going to fall off if you look at a bridal magazine."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Not what I'm worried about."

"No? I would've thought your particular brand of over-compensation didn't do well with this sort of thing."

It doesn't, not really, but now it feels like a challenge and Dean's never been one to back down from those. He'll be the best damn ribbon-weaver in California if he has to.

"Guess you thought wrong."

Bela raises an eyebrow and in a sudden move tosses him the stack of rolled-up _Premier Bride_ issues in her arms. Dean only just manages to catch them. "Study up, then. Wouldn't want Sammy to get suspicious... start asking questions about who you really are. What you're doing here."

"Not even I know the answer to that," Dean bites back.

"All in good time, Dean." She motions to the plastic bag on the bed. "Blue Oyster Cult shirts and leather jackets are out, I'm afraid, so what you'll be wearing is in there and..." she checks her watch. "I heard they are a little early, so you should probably change soon."


	4. Three

"Mr. and Mrs. Moore? They're here."

If the sudden ringing in Dean's ears hadn't incapacitated him in two seconds flat, it would've been funny to mock the Moores’ reactions to this news. Obvious anticipation at seeing their daughter is masked behind last-minute eyeliner checks (Miranda), proper hair etiquette (Carl), and invisible dusting of one's suit (both).

"They parked in the garage building?" Miranda asks, not off-handedly enough to appear totally collected.

"Yes. Walking up the path as we speak, ma'am."

The maid holds the door open but it takes an extra second for them to vacate the home office.

"Do they look tired?"

"Hard to tell from this distance. Dave texted me to say Jess was driving, though."

"Hm. All right." Miranda squares her shoulders one last time and motions for her husband to follow her out. "We'll greet them at the door."

And so it is that Dean finds himself standing a little way behind and to the side of the welcome-committee, in possibly the most unreal scenario he has participated in so far (and he went undercover as a Santa's elf once). Household staff, Bela, and Miranda's personal assistant Tamara are all there, standing on the steps like this is a rerun of Downton Abbey or something.

Sam's going to appear any second now.

Dean doesn't know if he's feeling weary or ecstatic or if this is what being in the middle of a panic attack is like. He's going to be sick, or he's going to sweat through his stupid navy button-down. The gray tie Bela put him in is strangling his neck, and the fake glasses keep sliding down his nose.

"All _right_ , Jess," someone mutters to his right. The maid who's not Stella or Jo and whose name he still doesn't know.

And then he spots them.

They look like they should be moving in slow motion; like a scene from a movie or an ad--a _shampoo_ ad, because Sam's hair is worth it.

Jessica Moore is even more spectacular in person than in pictures, the setting sun painting her curls ochre and bronze. The Moore estate sits on a slight hill, and the slant of the walk means that when the breeze rolls down to ruffle her blouse it does so with a light caress. She's carrying a large suitcase and laughing with one of the empty-handed bellboys scurrying behind her.

Next to the girl, Sam is holding a duffle bag in one hand and a dog leash in the other. A tawny golden retriever is trotting at his feet. A general murmur of approval seems to rise up around Dean as Sam unclips the thing and lets the dog sprint ahead of him.

"Um. Wow," Jo mutters.

Dean can't even be annoyed at her 'cause... well. Yeah.

'Wow' is just about it.

Sam grew up, all right, and he's--there's really no other way to put it: he's stupidly good-looking. Pretty in a way that you just don't see every day, and Dean knows all about that because he's used his own looks enough times to understand the power behind that kind of appeal. Sam's sturdy jaw and powerful shoulders underline masculinity and strength, but the high cheekbones, cat-eyes and delicate nose soften his face beautifully.

He’s... something else.

The closer he gets the more details Dean registers, information hitting him at an alarming speed and soon he’s feeling saturated. Sam hunches when he walks, he's California-tan, he's tall, he's _really_ tall, he's _huge_. When Dean had pictured a little brother he’d imagined someone... well, _little_ , to start. Certainly shorter than him. Someone who could both literally and figuratively look up to him.

Sam is not little.

And he’s... he’s also wearing khakis and a sweater vest, which makes him look kind of _preppy_.

"He doesn't look anything like you," Jo murmurs.

It's true. There's nothing there for Dean to latch on to, no distinguishing feature he can see himself reflected in. Especially given Sam's apparent cookie-cutter wholesome vibe, which is... well, suffice it to say, Dean embodies whatever is the exact opposite of that.

“You’re sure it’s him?”

“It’s him,” he grunts.

So much information, and yet none of it traceable to the Winchester blood that runs through Dean's veins. Up close, Sam looks like a trust-fund brat whose daddy’s position on the board made him Captain of the water polo team.

 _Want_ hits Dean like a punch in the gut.

The couple stops in front of the Moores and sets down their suitcases for a brief respite and the perfunctory greeting. One of the gardeners has crouched down to greet the dog, letting it slobber all over her hand and chuckling.

"Welcome home, Jessica."

“Mom, dad. It’s... good to see you.”

Sam hangs back a little as Jessica kisses her mother in the cheek, and the problem is that the kid is exactly Dean's type. To a fucking tee. Sam looks like the guys who shyly come up to Dean in bars in hopes of getting a one-night exclusive peek at the Other Side--the adrenalin-junkies who submit to his control so easily, eager to bring back tall tales of dark deeds to their less adventurous friends.

It’s uncanny, how well he fits into the small subgroup of men Dean fucks.

And Dean... a part of Dean just wants to laugh and ask _'How much Jane Austen did you read in preparation for this_?' and _'How much product is in your hair right now, ballpark figure_ ', but another part of him wants to beat Sam at pool and mutter _'You been with another guy before_?' and _'You like fast cars and hard rock_?'.

Which is—

He can’t... he’s not allowed to think that.

And yet the confusing stab of heat in his lower belly says his body doesn’t give a shit.

“How was the drive up, honey?”

“Good. It was good. You... really did the whole nine-yards again, huh? Even though I said not to?"

Jessica grimaces a little at the assembled group, but Sam still seems to be taking it all in. The same might be said for Dean, but he's only got one person in his sights.

There's a lot of Sam to process.

"Of course. We thought it'd be nice for you to see everyone before the daytime staff leaves for the night."

The smile on Jessica’s face becomes a little more strained, and then downright apologetic when she turns to face them. "You didn't have to."

"Sure we did," Miranda declares. "They all wanted to see you, too." Only then does Jessica's mother acknowledge Sam’s existence. "So this is...?"

"Sam. Sam, these are my parents. Miranda and Carl."

Sam steps forward, dwarfing both Moores in the process. He shakes Miranda's hand first, then Carl's, and smiles the same close-mouthed smile he had in the candid picture they gave Dean in his print-out. The print-out with information on the con. The con Dean's here to work on.

Because Sam is Dean’s job: his _mark_.

Slowly, Dean’s brain seems to finish rebooting and his systems flicker back on.

He needs to analyze the mark and forget about the context, because that’s what will save them. For his brother’s sake, this week has to end with Sam none the wiser about who Dean is or how they are related to each other, so forget the fact that standing just a few feet away is the person Dean has sacrificed everything for. Forget that Sam has been on Dean's mind his whole life without knowing it. Forget that the kid looks good enough to--

What can Dean _use_.

At first glance, Sam is what Dean’s libido makes him to be: your average male model playing a frat boy on that romantic comedy about the only girl ever to wear glasses in college. On second (or fifth) look, however, the sweater-vest he’s wearing is pretty tight around Sam’s chest. Tight enough to make Dean suspect Sam may not be its original owner. So maybe it was lent to him by a friend and this is just an ill-conceived look to impress his _fiancée’s_ parents. The slouch of his stance as he attempts to fold seven feet’s worth of muscle into something unthreatening is also telling. It’s a posture he adopts pretty naturally, and must resort to often.

Both things tell Dean Sam is eager to please and playing the part. The part of acceptable candidate for Jessica Moore’s hand. Clearly, he thought ‘acceptable candidate’ meant flat-ironing his hair was a choice he was allowed to make in life, but there’s no reason for Dean to suspect anything is going on here beyond your average boy wanting to impress a girl’s stuck-up rich parents.

"Everyone, this is Sam," Jessica is saying, motioning to the little group and then to Sam in a vague up-and-down gesture. "Sam, these are some of the people who help around the house. I've known Dharshi since I was five, she's our gardener. And Logan's been the butler since before I was born, right?" The man in question nods as Jess continues to point out a couple more people.

Sam smiles at each of them in turn, still not showing his teeth which is starting to get a bit weird, or maybe Dean's the only one who notices (but it's not like this is the animal kingdom and someone's going to take it as a sign of weakness). Dean wonders why that is, if Sam's developed the habit as a defense mechanism over the years. He'd hoped Sam would have had the freedom to be 'carefree'; from what he understands, some people genuinely feel that way.

And then Dean realizes, a second too late, that he should have ducked his head before--their eyes meet.

Sam's gaze had been politely roving from one person to the other but it snags when he looks at Dean, and stays there. His mouth drops open in a little pink 'o'.

Dean can't move.

He's been waiting for this moment what feels like his whole damn life, he can't be expected to--Sam's eyes are intent and golden in the setting sun which is probably a trick of the light but... why won't he look away?

"--looking forward to meeting the rest of you guys, sorry for all the fuss--" Jessica is still talking, and so far no one seems to have noticed but it's a matter of seconds, surely. Dean should do... something, but what? Sam doesn't know him. Sam can't remember him. The last time they saw each other Sam was just a kid, a teenager with better things to do and other things to think about, he didn't know who Dean was other than a forgettable face in a short scene.

"Sam?"

"Right."

The moment ends when Jessica nudges her fiancé to indulge her parents in a couple more minutes of excruciatingly awkward small talk. Jo is starting to shiver out on the steps in her thin black shirt, and she's not the only one, but clearly that's not the kind of thing the Moores care about.

"She sure knows how to pick 'em," someone whispers while they wait.

"He could probably pick me up with one hand," Stella answers faintly.

"All right, calm down," Dean mutters, because that's his baby brother they are objectifying--despite the uncomfortable taste of agreement coating the underside of his tongue.

Finally, Jessica points out that it's getting dark and the group is allowed to disperse. Most of the staff file inside to get their things and leave for the night, but the maids and butler are sticking around to serve dinner to the Moores and guest.

Dean knows he should head straight for his room but his feet are stiff and heavy, and leave him uselessly staring after Sam instead. The boy is impossible to lose in the crowd even as a slight bottleneck effect happens in the entryway; Sam's so large he sticks out like a sore thumb. He's being led away by his girlfriend, but keeps looking back over his shoulder with an eager little squint. Dean tries to tell himself he's not the person Sam's searching for, nor does he want to be. There has to be some other explanation for whatever just passed between them. Maybe Sam just thought he was hot.

It's a win-lose when Sam catches sight of him again, and his eyes light up with recognition.

Sam's mouth opens as though he's about to say something but then closes, probably because he's realized he'd have to yell across a crowded room. Dean should look away now but he doesn't, can't, even as a small hand slips into his and starts dragging him away from the family, towards the main staircase.

"No backup necessary my ass," Jo mutters, but Dean barely hears her.

He and Sam keep staring at each other right up until the living room door slides shut and severs their eye-contact.

*

He can’t sleep. Even after he’s stripped off the stupid clothes Bela put him in and gotten rid of the glasses and put his rings back on and re-tied his wristbands and done everything in his arsenal to regain some sense of comfort or familiarity whatever, his brain can’t shut the fuck up about his brother.

Sam acted more reserved than he’d expected, and he looks much more country-pop than classic-rock, but he’s still...

Absolutely fucking perfect.

And fuck, but Dean wants him. In the maddening, supremely stressful way a Lepidopterist must yearn to worship the rarest butterfly but not touch it for fear of destroying it; Dean _wants_.

He thinks: his body should see Sam as untouchable. Then he thinks: it already does. Not being able to have doesn’t stop the want, not for him. Not when it comes to his brother.

In the end, half-delirious with insomnia and anxiety, Dean falls into a restless doze and dreams of building Sam an altar, arranging every symbol around the candid of Sam he was given at the start. When he’s finished, he slits the palm of his hand for an offering but the blood gushes out Tarantino-style, spattering the whole structure until it’s coated in red instead of dripping into the plate.

It doesn’t even rank in the top ten most fucked up dreams he’s had.

*

The next morning, Dean gets an alert on his phone that turns out to be a text from Bela.

_Talking 2 th fam in living room, 5 mins_

He scrambles out of bed, and that part's easy 'cause he's had to become excruciatingly good at rough wakings, but five minutes means no breakfast and that never puts him in a good mood. The stupid-ass khaki’s he has to wear don’t help with his mood either.

He stomps down the corridor and he's midway down the marble stairs when he realizes there's someone standing at the bottom. He stumbles, slips, and nearly falls on his ass before he grabs hold of the bannister.

His brother has a coffee cup in one hand and a book in the other.

"Hi."

Sam's toned down the prep this morning; he's wearing jeans and sneakers and his shirt is a horrendous purple tee with what appears to be a greyhound on the front. His hair is also different. Better. Instead of last night's overdone disaster today is a soft, sleep-mussed tangle that curls a little behind his ears and down to the nape of his neck.

He looks like the picture of domesticity.

Or the first minute of a "MALE NANNY GIVES HOUSEWIFE ENTHUSIASTIC ORAL XXX" porno.

Turns out, however, that the fact that he no longer looks brochure-ready doesn’t make him less attractive in Dean's eyes. _Inviting_ , is the word Dean realizes he's searching for. By riding the line between domestic and pornographic Sam looks _inviting_.

And he's... waiting for a response to his salute. Right.

"Hey," Dean ends up replying, hoarse like a three-pack smoker. He stays where he is and doesn't approach the kid, as though he's going to sully Sam's aura just by being near him. He’s feeling too disgusted with his inner dirty-old-man to risk it.

Sam squints up at him with a tentative half-smile. Utterly clueless of the effect he’s having, surely.

"Can I ask you something?"

Dean gives him a nod on automatic.

"Do I know you?"

Dean thought he had rehearsed every scenario of their meeting in his head. This was never a question that was asked first thing.

He wavers, trying to gauge what the appropriate response time is when he seems to have lost all sense of linear progression and possibly gravity has no hold on him either.

"I, uh, don't think so."

"Really?”

“Really.

“...Oh."

Sam looks down self-consciously, then bites his lower lip, seemingly deep in thought. Fuck. That gesture should come with a ten-second countdown warning.

“Are you sure?”

"Dude, isn't it kinda inappropriate to hit on the staff right before your engagement party?"  Hold up _,_ no _,_ usual methods don't apply here, he _can't_ seduce his mark to get out of trouble this time.

"Oh, no I wasn't--that’s not what I meant."

“I mean, I wouldn’t blame you.”

“I wasn’t hitting on you.”

“S’okay, you’re only human.”

“No, I-I’m genuinely asking.” Sam puts up the hand with the coffee (which sloshes predictably) like he's swearing an oath. “You look really familiar, and I was wondering..."

He starts climbing the steps towards Dean and Dean doesn't back away, but he wants to. He wants to tell Sam to keep his guard up, he wants to tell him about Bela, wants to warn him about demons and spirits and vampires and Dean himself.

Instead he says: “Look, I keep a log in my diary of guys that are taller than me and you’re not in it, so.”

Sam stops right in front of him, so they are at eye-level. What they _aren't_ is standing on the same step, and for a second Dean feels like a little kid. Like Sam is actually average-sized and Dean is the one who is small.

“Okay. My bad, then.” Sam has a mole on the side of his nose. This is the closest they’ve ever been since Sam was a baby, not that Sam has any idea. “Guess I confused you with somebody else."

"Guess you did.” Sam’s gaze is searching Dean’s face for something he doesn’t seem to find. Dean lets the silence go on for as long as he can stand and then he clears his throat noisily. “Tell you the truth, I've been confused with Brad Pitt on multiple occasions--"

"Sam! There you are."

Jessica Moore strides up to them, a distraction Dean uses to break away from Sam's stare. His brother takes a sip of his coffee and follows him back down the stairs.

"And you must be... Dean?"

"Yup." She has a warmth about her that's infectious, has quickly diffused the tension in the scene. "How'd you--"

"Bela said her assistant was prettier than I was. And now I believe her." She smiles big, and wraps an arm around Sam's waist. "Don't _you_ , Sam?"

"I-I--"

"Jessica." She thrusts out a hand to shake Dean's, interrupting her stuttering fiancé. Sam looks as grateful for it as Dean feels.

"It's great to finally meet you, Jessica."

"Likewise. If you don't mind though, guys, my folks are waiting in the living room..."

*

Sam and Jessica end up sharing a couch and Dean and Bela are left standing facing mommy-and-daddy Moore on the sofa.

"Your brother's grown up nicely, I must say," Bela mutters under her breath, inaudible to the rest of the room's occupants as they are still painstakingly exchanging pleasantries over a platter of bagels (bagels nobody is eating, which is a fucking crime). Dean is starving, but a preemptive slap on the wrist from his blackmailer stopped him mid-reach. "I mean... talk about a hunk."

"You shut up," Dean hisses.

Bela pretends to zip her lips closed and immediately ruins the gesture by smirking right after. "You can't deny it."

"I'm not, I'm just saying you need to stop talking."

"But he's so--"

"So, Bela. Why don't we get started?"

"Happy to." Her smile is on like a switch has been flipped. “If you open the first page of the binder you’ll see—“

“Just a second, sorry Bela. I’ll ring for the coffees again, the new girls must have forgotten to bring them in.” Miranda makes as if to get up but Bela interrupts with another generous smile.

“Oh, Dean can do it. Can’t you, Dean?”

Dean pastes a hermetic smile on his face. “Sure. I’ll go get them.”

Miranda eyes him up, then seems to accept this turn of events. “Good. Mine was the one with skim milk, please.”

“Two sugars for me, Mr Smith—“

“I take mine black."

Dean scrambles to remember it all as they go around the room until his gaze lands on the only person who hasn’t expressed a coffee preference. Sam is looking at him quietly from under his lashes.

Dean silently waits for his order. Sam seems to be silently waiting for something too, until it probably starts to become obvious to the others that something is... happening...

“Sam?” Jessica mutters.

Sam blinks. “Oh, I already had mine. Thanks.”

“Okay. Be right back.”

He bows out of the room and almost runs Jo over, tray included.

“What took you so long?”

“Ugh, shoot me please,” is her only response, and the moment she’s assured herself that the platter is secure in his arms she’s off to do God knows what in another part of the house.

By the time he comes back into the living room, Bela is saying: "I'd like to hear what Sam and Jess have to say about the date first, and then we can talk venue, maybe...?"

He’s mostly guessing as to who wanted skim or black, but right as he’s about to mess up Carl’s cup Sam takes it from him and hands it to Jessica.

Their fingers brush for a second.

“I really do want them to consider our grounds, the gazebo area is flat enough for the ceremony, I’m sure.”

“Really, mom? You want us to have the wedding _here_?”

Dean zones out the next agonizing hour, and he catches both Sam and Jessica doing the same at several moments throughout.

When it's finally over, Dean is about ready to slip into a hypoglycemic coma and die of starvation; his fingers tingle and everything (though only on his right hand, for some reason).

"This evening, then, after lunch?" Bela is saying.

"Wonderful."

Behind her parents, Jessica pretends to hang herself with her scarf, and Sam laughs quietly into the back of his hand like some sort of adorable woodland creature. Who even is this kid, seriously.

Dean is planning to escape to the kitchens and beg Gordon for all his pastries (not many, not most-- _all_ of them), but then Miranda says: "Dean. Would you entertain Sam for us this morning? Jessica and I have some mother-daughter bonding time to catch up on."

A glance at Jessica's face tells Dean all he needs to know about what she'd choose between mother-daughter bonding and shark-tank skinny-dipping, but he can't exactly say 'no'. "Sure. I'll entertain Sam."

Having not been consulted for his opinion, Sam simply shrugs and kisses his fiancée on the cheek before following Dean out of the room.

"So... “ Dean says as they stand facing each other in the entryway.

“So,” says Sam.

Dean searches his face for a clue into what he’s thinking but Sam just looks tentatively expectant, with slightly-parted lips. Fuck. There’s a chance Sam's presence alone is messing with Dean’s reading skills.

And then Dean’s stomach growls. _Loudly_.

Sam breaks into a rueful smile. He has very bright white teeth, and deep dimples that dig into his cheeks. The expression changes his entire face, and it just makes Dean feel hungrier (and consequently more like he should punch himself in the nuts).

“Have you had breakfast?”

“No,” Dean didn’t mean to sound defensive but he does. Then again, Sam is like an attack on his senses. “Have you?”

“Nope.”

There's a pause as they both kind of seize each other up. There’s something... beyond Dean's disaster-zone of a reaction, he thinks there might be a current, like static between them; an energy that can't be one-sided. Like their bodies know they are connected on some intrinsic level and instinctually seek each other out.

If only that accounted for Dean's desire to touch Sam until he could reconstruct the curve of his ear by memory, the bend of his knuckle--

“You wanna?” Sam asks.

“ _Yeah_.” Wait. Dean grunts and clears his throat. “I mean sure. Let’s go to the kitchen, I know a guy.” He takes off without looking back, breathing hard.

He'd always thought he had a good idea of where his limits of 'fucked up' lied: pretty far from your average Joe, but still... present. And then along came Sam, _Jesus_.

“The kitchen? Aren’t we gonna disturb the house-elves?”

“Huh?”

“...Harry Potter?”

Good lord. All that and his baby brother is a total _nerd_.

Dean snorts and doesn’t reply. How the world hasn’t eaten Sam up is becoming increasingly mysterious.

"Okay, here we are. Most important meal of the day and all that."

Dean shoves open the kitchen door.

The sight that greets them is of a brightly-lit chrome-everything room that sparkles warmly and smells like frying oil in the best possible way.

Sam groans appreciatively. "Awesome."

In spite of himself, Dean tucks his chin down to his chest and grins. He did a thing that made Sam sound like that.

"Dean. Good morning."

The cook walks up to him with a broad smile, like he'd been waiting for Dean to show up. The smile only widens when he catches sight of Sam.

"And you brought a friend."

"Hi. I'm--"

"You must be Sam. I'm Gordon. Gordon Walker."

Sam's outstretched hand is vigorously shaken and so is his polite grimace. He doesn't look all that happy with the obvious below-stairs talk.

Gordon seems to notice. "Sorry man, it's just that not much happens around here. You're the mystery guest, everyone was curious. And of course, Jess is well-loved by the folk here."

"Right. Of course." They are still shaking hands. "I don't remember her mentioning you, though."

The chef nods. "I'm one of the new guys. Still settling in."

"Cool."

"That's great, everyone caught up?" Dean interrupts. "Yeah? Good. What's a man gotta do to get some grub around here?"

"A man that looks like you ain't gotta do a whole lot," Gordon says with a smirk, before turning towards his counters.

A sound that's nowhere near a giggle bubbles up from Dean's chest and he quickly (and manfully) clears his throat. Gordon continues doing his thing, oblivious, but Sam shoots him a vaguely amused look that Dean chooses to ignore.

What? Hot guys hitting on him are never something he's gotten used to. It's why he goes for the college boys every time, with their disbelieving moans and inexperienced pawing hands, stuttering out worship and praise for Dean's mouth and cock--

"You okay there?" Sam's voice cuts in.

Dean knows he's beet red and he wishes he hadn't forgotten his stupid fake glasses to hide behind.

"M'fine."

"Help yourselves, gentlemen," Gordon calls from the sink. "I've got a fully stocked fridge and the pantry's through that door." He motions at the end of the long narrow room, to a door that Sam's going to have to crouch sideways to fit through.

"Cheers, Gordon."

They eat in silence, but it's so thick you could probably spread it on Dean's bagel.

The black coffee serves to wake him up but it also goes straight to his chest, heart pounding harder and faster the more he thinks about what he's doing, who he's with.

 _The concept of Sam_ , Doctor Visyak had said all those years ago.

Sam's a flesh and blood boy sitting on a stool politely eating a sandwich with his fork and knife. Has Dean already ruined his life just by entering it? Sam appears to be deep in contemplative thought but every few seconds Dean catches him sneaking a quick glance his way. A few more times and this will turn into a game of eye-contact tag.

_Do I know you?_

Dean remembers every detail of the day he watched Sam through that fence, but there's no way Sam remembers _him_. Not unless the mysterious reason behind the demons’ interest in him has been a superhuman memory this whole time.

So what was with that question? Could it be, that some impossible physiological imprint remains between them? And if that were possible, why is it that Dean's response has been so involved, so complete, so... uncensored? Like his body forgot that not _every_ part of him gets to react to his brother's presence?

Dean chews the food in his mouth distractedly, so much so that a small chunk of semi-solid mush lands back on his plate. Oops.

Sam pretends not to notice, but he stares into the distance with a pretty grossed out expression. It scrunches up his nose and looks unbearably cute.

"We should head out," Dean mutters gruffly, pushing his plate away.

Sam quickly slurps at the last dregs of his coffee and puts his cup down. "Okay. Thanks for breakfast, Gordon."

"Happy to help, Sam."

Instead of leaving, though, Sam hops off his stool and starts clearing the table.

Both Dean and Gordon stare at him a little, and then Gordon's mouth curves in a speculative smile. Dean's... not sure he likes the look on his face.

"Hey Gordon, can I ask you somethin'?"

"Sure, Dean."

"What's worth doing around here?"

Gordon tosses the washrag over his shoulder and slumps against the counter, seemingly deep in thought. Then he suggests the squash court.

"I look like I play squash to you?" Dean demands.

"Do _I_?" Sam echoes. He's started soaping up the dishes.

"It's like, the premier white-people sport. No?" Gordon chuckles. "You can always take a walk or somethin'."

Sam looks over at Dean, whose gut still clenches weirdly whenever that happens. They both shrug at the same time.

"You can leave that in the sink, Sam," Gordon adds, as an afterthought.

Sam shakes his head, hands engulfed in coffee-tinged bubbles. "It's no trouble."

"You're kind of a goody-two-shoes, aren't you?" Dean blurts. He can't help it.

"Hardly." A snort.

"Bet you do the vacuuming too, huh?"

He asks because he wants to add details to his mental picture of this responsible college kid, nothing more than a well of curiosity that feels like it might never be sated. Because Sam doesn't turn around, however, he misses the good-natured smile on Dean's face and must interpret the question as a taunt.

“I do, actually. Bet your house is a dumpster if you consider vacuuming a high living standard."

" _Ouch_ ," Gordon says, grinning.

"I meant no disrespect, Sam," Dean says quickly. "I think it's great, you keeping... stuff... clean."

"Oh." The water taps off. Having finished the washing, Sam dries his hands on his jeans and nods awkwardly. "Um. Okay."

"Okay. Great," Gordon adds. He claps his hands and makes a vague 'shoo'ing motion. "As much as I'd love for you two to stay and chit-chat, I've got lunch stuff to prepare. So. Skedaddle."

Thus dismissed, the two brothers walk out of the kitchen and back towards the main hall to escape outside. It's bright and sunny, a perfect California weather day.

"So... all we're missing are parasols and a Mr. Darcy, huh?" Dean offers with a wave to their surroundings. Sam nods but doesn't reply.

They certainly have the set up covered; a Victorian house, the idyllic background, and a leisurely walk around the gardens. There's an elegantly styled path that winds around the hills from the front entrance of the estate, but Sam leads them away from it and towards the patch of woods to the left of the terrain. Dean just goes with it.

"So..."

"So."

The way Sam is looking at him needs to change. His expression has settled on a weary interest that borders on suspicion; as though Sam's decided he doesn't believe Dean's earlier denial about them having met. And Dean still has no clue where that question came from but he's gotta figure out a way to get Sam to drop it or else they are in even bigger trouble.

"I guess congratulations are in order, right? You must be over the moon."

Sam shrugs, then seems to realize that's not the right response.

"Uh, I am. Yeah. It's... amazing. Jess is the best. I love her to death, and she's been my best friend for so long... She's like my cornerstone, but she pushes me out of my comfort zone at the same time. She's awesome." Despite the rocky start, his words are heartfelt, and his gaze full of that same warmth the candid picture of him had captured.

"That's awesome," Dean tells him. It doesn't feel like a total lie. More than anything, Dean wants Sam to be happy, even if the bliss of ignorance means Sam will never know that. Just like he'll never know how Dean's been missing him their whole lives--will go on missing him when this job is done and they go their separate ways.

Better one guy with a phantom limb ache than two, right?

It's good that Sam's found someone who completes him. It's _great_.

"Thanks." Sam nods. "You got anybody?"

"Hm? Oh, no. No, I'm not really into the, uh--commitment thing."

"Oh."

Silence descends. Dean has the thought that this guy walking next to him has no reason to like him at all, and that if Dean doesn't try even a little Sam is going to remember him as that shitty wedding planner with the 5-o’clock scruff.

He's about to blurt out the first thing that comes into his head when Sam anticipates him.

"Can I ask you something? Uh, something else?"

Uh oh.

"... Sure. What's up?"

"Did you... around 1996, were you anywhere near Sioux Falls, Indiana?"

Dean's smile freezes in his face.

The high school.

He remembers. Sam freaking _remembers_.

"I..." They saw each other from afar and it lasted all of two seconds. Tiny Sam caught his eye, stopped mid-field to stare at him, and got bowled over, the end. How is it even possible that he recognizes Dean? What does Dean say? Does he deny it? Does he give himself away? Does this count as a breach of Bela's rules? Is he putting Sam in danger by saying 'yes'?

The last question settles it, though. Because if there's even a chance of endangering Sam he can't risk it.

"...don't think so."

If Sam's safety _wasn't_ the thing on the line, however, Dean would've retracted immediately after seeing Sam’s reaction. The eagerness fades from his face and his eyes zing with this confused _hurt_ for a moment--it kind of breaks Dean's heart. Or, y'know, it would've if he had a heart instead of a beating hand-grenade, as Bela so charmingly put it.

"Why do you ask?"

"I, um. I met a boy..." Sam trails off. He looks kind of lost.

"Was he cute as can be?" Dean asks, stone-faced.

It works. Sam smiles again, seemingly in spite of himself. Makes Dean want to tell somebody, get the congratulations he deserves for making it happen.

"He looked an awful lot like you."

Dean lets his eyebrows fly up. "No shit."

"Yeah."

"Please, tell me more."

Sam doesn't smile again, he just goes on looking speculative. "I only saw him once, but it was pretty memorable."

Stupid multi-colored _eyes_ \--

"Sorry, man. You're not ringing any bells."

"You're sure?"

"For the hundredth time, yes."

Sam nods to himself. "Okay. Sorry. I won't... I'll stop bugging you about it."

"S'okay."

_I haven't relived that moment every single day since. I haven't imagined it all ending differently, with me sweeping you off your feet and taking you to live at Bobby's with us_

They start walking again and Sam sneaks a couple of unsubtle glances at him from under his bangs. Whenever their eyes meet it's like tumblers falling into place, and Dean's never felt this sort of connection with anyone before. It's dangerous to let himself slide deeper into the broiling mix of emotions Sam makes him feel, he knows that, but this is his only chance to talk to his brother. It's impossible not to want to get to know Sam.

He tells himself that this morning is all he'll allow himself. He'll spend the rest of his days here focusing on Bela and taking her out, but just this once, Dean will have it both ways. He'll keep Sam safe and get to know him simultaneously, because Bela's convoluted agenda has dropped this chance into his lap, so as long as he keeps his dirty paws to himself... why is it so terrible a thing for him to take it?

"You wanna start or should I?" Dean says finally.

"Start?"

"Y'know... what's your favorite color, favorite band, favorite pizza topping--"

Sam laughs again. It's kind of amazing. Dean has the crazy thought that if he can record it on his stupid phone somehow the rest of his life will be worth living.

"Right, okay. I guess I'll... so... where are you from, Dean Smith?"

"North Dakota. Originally. But I've moved around a bunch. Current address is wherever Bela happens to be."

"You two are, uh--"

"God, no. No. Not like that."

Sam nods. "And when did you decide you wanted to become a wedding planner?"

Dean snorts. He has a half-assed backstory that he’d thought up for this job same as he does for every other gig he’s ‘fixed’, but it sucks that the first exchange of information he has with his brother is going to be ninety-percent bullshit. "I'm just... I'm Bela's assistant. Whatever she happens to be doing, I'm there. Weddings aren't really... my thing."

He catches Sam raising his eyebrows at that but he doesn't comment.

"What about you? What's law school like?"

"Tough. But almost over, so... it's been good."

"Cool."

There's another awkward silence as their differences seem to expand the chasm of conversation topics ahead. Dean doesn’t care; he’ll plow through any social obstacle to keep Sam talking about himself.

"So... seriously, favorite pizza topping. And if you say pineapple, we're over."

There it is again: a slightly disbelieving laugh like he can’t quite believe that Dean is for real. Teeth, dimples, bright. Heat in Dean's belly, like coals being stoked to a fizzing red.

"Dude, what’s wrong with pineapple?”

“Oh my _God_."

"What?"

"Okay, the only way you can redeem yourself is by naming favorite drink. And you're on thin ice so tread carefully, young Skywalker."

Sam smiles at the reference. "I don't really... have a particular drink. I like beer, but--"

"I'm going to stop you right there." Dean points a finger-gun at him. "Ever smoke weed?"

"I'm a _law student_."

"I see. Straight for the hard stuff, huh?"

Sam slaps Dean’s imaginary weapon aside. "No way!”

He’s practically giggling and suddenly it's all Dean can do not to lean up and lick those pretty pink lips. The thought makes him visibly falter for a few seconds, and Sam’s laughter tapers off hesitantly. Then the smile that detonated Dean’s heart-grenade dims until it vanishes, and Dean can think again.

“So if not drugs, what then?” Dean asks, like the moment never happened. “Sean Cody flicks to pay your rent?”

Sam’s jaw drops, which means he knows what Sean Cody is.

“Why are you trying to catch me out?” And then, like the thought has just occurred to him. “Did Jess' parents put you up to this?"

Oops. They totally did, but Dean had actually forgotten about that. He just wants to extract as much information as he can, while he can. Who could blame him?

"Maybe I'm practicing my dating technique."

"Well, no offense? But your dating technique makes me feel like I'm under arrest."

"Okay, okay, I'll start smaller. What’s the worst thing you’ve been caught doing at a kegger?"

Sam shakes his head in disbelief. "You're hopeless."

Dean laughs and it doesn’t even sound winded, like he feels. Ha. "You gotta give me something to work with, man."

"I really don’t,” Sam protests, but he still doesn't look angry, just endearingly goody-goody. “I'm just not that kind of guy.”

"So you're an actual saint? No way, you must have made some bad choices sometimes." At Sam's raised eyebrows, Dean goes on. "Ever cheated on a test? Ever experimented with a frat boy? Shot a man just to watch him die? Come on, man, you're a _college_ kid. Do they even let you in if you don't partake in any of the fun stuff?"

Sam shakes his head again, but his cheeks flush a flattering blotchy pink and in Dean’s mind it was totally at the frat boy mention. "Have you ever _been_ to college, Dean?"

"Do I look like I've ever been to college?"

It's becoming clear to him now, that without Dean's influence Sam has been missing out on some pretty vital life experiences. But he can work with that. Someone needs to coax him out of his shell a little, tease him about the way he drinks his coffee and his straight-laced habits. Dean's the man for the job. He's allowed to do that because this is not flirting. It's platonic ribbing, like brothers do. Normal brothers. Not weird brothers who want to kiss each other.

Except...

Except for the way Sam’s looking at him. Cheeks flushed still, a look in his eye like he's considering Dean's question against his better judgement. Dean has already forgotten what his question was. He may have also forgotten his own name.

"Guess not," Sam says.

Dean gulps.

This was stupid. A stupid direction to take. He needs to abort mission.

"So is your family coming up for the engagement party, or...?"

But that’s a mistake, and Dean realizes this seconds after the words are out of his mouth. He thought his voice came out pretty casual, but Sam changes his entire demeanor. He straightens his posture and his eyes are instantly back to suspicious.

"My parents died when I was a baby."

"Oh. Shit. I'm sorry, man--"

"It's okay. I got out of the system the day I turned sixteen, y'know. Emancipated."

"Wow. That's... young."

Sam shrugs, still clearly tense and on guard. Then he kicks a pebble and says: “What about you?”


	5. Four

Dean’s exhausted by lunchtime. One thing’s for sure; Sam’s going to be an amazing lawyer.

He somehow manages not to answer a single question about his own past, and instead cross-examines Dean all morning, asking question after question and latching onto the inconsistencies in his backstory with a tenacity that’s freaking annoying as hell. He also keeps doing this thing where he lures Dean into a false sense of security by getting him talking about Led Zep or a Styx concert he went to once and then suddenly springing him a question. It’s kind of like walking around with an adorable puppy dodging his heels and having to be on constant alert for ankle-biting.

“So... what are your thoughts on clairvoyance?”

Dean’s only met two legitimate psychics, and chances are Sam’s never come near one.

“That’s an awfully random question there, Sam. You sayin’ some chick with a crystal ball mentioned a handsome stranger to you recently?”

Sam doesn’t let up. Not even when his actual dog Bones joins them later when the gardener who befriended him takes him outside. It hurts so bad it’s almost funny; the kid looks so fucking golden and precious and wholesome (he keeps coming back to that word) pretending to be bowled over by the enthusiastic animal.

“You a dog person at all?”

“Life on the road’s not exactly good for keeping pets.”

A strange look passes over Sam’s features at that.

“But you must have had friends who could take care of them for you while you travelled.”

Dean shrugs. “Always been a bit of a loner.”

“But...” Sam looks up at him, serious despite getting slobbered all over his right ear and cheek. He seems to consider saying something else, then doesn’t. “Okay.”

Dean forces out a weak excuse for a chuckle. “Whatever. S’not a bad life.”

“If you say so.”

Eventually, Dean makes an excuse and leaves Sam playing catch with his pet.

The effort he expends in taking every step away from his brother is proof of how it’s the right thing to do. Watching Sam laugh and talk to his dog with a wistful feeling in his chest is just a fucked up waste of time.

Miranda is waiting for him in the entryway when he goes back inside the house. She's fully decked out in sport-gear, clearly about to go out for a jog.

Mother-daughter bonding time didn't last very long, apparently.

"So?" she demands imperiously.

"...So?"

Miranda clicks her fingers. "So, what have you found out."

"He's..." Obnoxious. Naive. A nerd. Too good for this world, probably. Too smart for his own good. Too attractive for a red-blooded guy to focus on solely platonic brotherly feelings, apparently. "Boring, to tell you the truth. Orphaned young, grew up in the foster system but beat the odds. Talks like he swallowed an encyclopedia sometimes, but I think you're still in time to wean him off that--"

"That's not what I'm paying you for," she interrupts. "Drugs. Scandal. Sex. What have you got?"

Dean frowns at her tone. "I... gotta be honest, it kinda sounds like you're looking for something to pin on the guy. Like you've made up your mind about him already."

She purses her lips in distaste. "If the shoe fits."

"Yikes." He should have probably inferred it from their very first meeting, but he didn't. And now he understands what this game was really about the entire time. "Well, I'm sorry lady but I got nothing."

"Then keep looking until you find something."

"That's not what we discussed."

"I don't care."

Dean has to bite his tongue, he knows that. And yet. "What's so bad about Sam Wesson? He's a good kid. He's a hard worker. He may not come from money but he's nearly finished paying off his student loans--"

"Spare me the sob story, Smith. If you don't find anything concrete, I'll make you look harder. Do you understand?"

"So... to be clear, you want me to make shit up."

"Just do it."

Her Nike sneakers are the cherry on top of the interaction as she power-walks away.

*

Dinner looks like it's going to be a formal affair every night and Dean isn't invited, but he bribes Jo with an anti-possession charm he picked up at Bobby’s to keep reporting back on her trips to the kitchen.

Tamara catches him at it as she's leaving for the day. She says he looks pathetic, but what does she know.

“Still asking him about his summer internships,” Jo mutters on her way to drop off an empty tray.

Dean’s so distracted he stops her on her way back out.

“I just--how could I possibly--” she sputters, and stomps away with a tray of champagne refills.

“You crushing on the groom-to-be, Dean?” Gordon asks him genially from the sink.

“I... what? Me, crushing on--What groom-to-be?”

Gordon chuckles. “Tall guy, looks kinda like a stray pup? You spent the entire morning with him on a romantic walk around the lawn?”

“Oh, that guy. Yeah, no. We walked for like, an hour, and that’s not what this... this isn’t that.”

Okay, so Gordon’s gonna think that’s exactly what this is. It’s still better than the alternative.

“They’ve moved on to passive-aggressive family questions,” Jo grunts on her next round.

Dean doesn’t get the chance to irritate her on purpose this time because another, much more pressing problem arises in the form of Bela in evening wear, tugging him out from under the kitchen doorway and towards the main hall of the house.

“We should talk.”

“See you later, Dean!” Gordon calls after them.

“Save me some pie!” Dean calls desperately back. And then to Bela mutters; “Hey, you didn’t say anything about eavesdropping, and technically this is what Miranda wants me to do anyway--”

Bela pushes him up against a nook behind the light fixtures, right before the entrance to the living room. A bit more force and the guests would’ve heard the thump.

“Whoa--hey, calm your--”

“Have you told Bobby Singer about our little arrangement?”

Dean considers telling the truth--and then discards that option. “No.”

“Then why is Ellen Harvelle’s daughter working as a new maid?” Bela hisses. She’s trembling with fury, and there’s something almost deranged about the anger in her eyes. “I told you to do exactly as I said. Exactly. If you deviate from that in any way your baby brother is going to be the trending topic in the hunter websites--“

She cuts herself off at the sound of approaching footsteps and of course there’s only one cover story option here. Bela’s perfume is rich and peach-scented but she’s suddenly wrapped around him so tightly that Dean can smell her cold sweat too. Without looking at her face and the clearly pissed-off vibes emoted there, the baseline tremble of her limbs feels like fear rather than anger.

“Don’t think you can outmaneuver me, Dean,” Bela breathes into his ear. “I know all your dirty little secrets.”

“Uh... hey.”

Of course.

Of course Sam’s the one clearing his throat behind them.

“Sam,” Bela exclaims, switching on her best rueful grin in a second. She turns around while adjusting her bra straps in a subtly obvious way. “You won’t tell, will you?”

But Sam’s looking past her at Dean, whose heartbeat has yet to steady at the sight of his brother.

“... Sam?” Bela says again.

“Right. No, ‘course not.” Sam hunches his shoulders and rubs at the back of his head, and suddenly it's obvious how adorable and embarrassed he is. “Sorry, guys.”

He wanders back into the dining area, and Dean wonders why he came out in the first place. To take a leak? To ask for some more paté?

To see who else was around?

He pushes Bela away and tamps down his stupid flare of disappointment.

“Another word, Winchester, and he’s toast,” she snaps. “No contact with anyone, I mean it. I’ll know.”

She glares at him once more for good measure and leaves, following Sam into the dining room.

*

The next day involves actual, real live horseback riding. Jessica announces the outing with the most enthusiasm Dean has seen her display since she and Sam arrived, and then proceeds to take off for the stables where her horse is waiting.

The rest of the family is left around the breakfast table in awkward silence for a few moments.

“So Sam, have you ever—“ Jess’ father starts to ask, but a floppy shake of Sam’s head cuts him off before he can finish the sentence. With a moue of distaste, Carl takes another bite of his scone. “Ah. Well, it might as well stay that way, I suppose. Wouldn’t want to risk having the groom in a cast for the wedding.”

Sam clicks his tongue in noncommittal acknowledgement, but doesn’t continue the conversation.

“Smith.”

Dean, who up until now has been standing against the wall flicking through a binder full of Bela’s wedding notes, looks up.

Miranda is signaling for him to come over by actually snapping her fingers over her shoulder. “Why don’t you take Sam to the gardens again today. So he can see Jess in her element, hm? Really give him a sense of the sort of activities she grew up enjoying.”

Despite the poorly-concealed passive-aggressive tone, Sam graces her with a big ol’ smile. “Sounds great."

Dean isn't so eager to please, mostly because he'd been hoping to sneak away and do some recon, starting with Bela's room. It's with a grunt that he flops his binder on a tea table and follows Sam outside.

*

They take Bones out again but Sam seems to have changed his attitude overnight. There's no trace of suspicion or reluctance on his part, and he's giving out big smiles for free. His opening remark is a companionable: “Hey, so I wanted to apologize about yesterday."

"Oh, there's no need for--"

"No, I should've backed off after you told me no the first time. Figured you had no reason to lie to me. I'm just... going through some stuff, I guess. It was outta line."

Ouch. Way to unwittingly add a shovel full of guilt to Dean's pile.

"No problem, man." He shoots Sam a smirk. "It's the face, it distracts people."

To his jarring surprise, Sam smirks _back_. "I can see why."

Dean’s smile slips right off. Sam keeps at it: dimples and teeth, phasers on full blast, and Dean's shields are suddenly at three-percent, Captain. “Huh?”

“What?”

"N-nothing." Dean squares his shoulders and keeps walking, staring straight ahead, not looking at Sam out of the corner of his eye. Not even once.

A couple of minutes pass in relatively peaceful silence as Dean gets his pulse under his fucking control. The dog has sprinted off after a ball Sam threw so forcefully Dean didn't see it land.

There's no sign of Jessica yet.

"So..." Sam squints up at the sky. "You and Bela, huh?”

Well, it’s not like he can deny it again.

“Uh... guess so. It’s not... serious. That’s why I didn’t tell you.”

Sam nods. “I figured. You said that wasn’t really your thing.”

In direct sunlight, Sam's eyes are a swirl of green, blue and copper. “... Y-yeah." Dean clears his throat. "I mean no. Not my thing.”

“You ever had a steady relationship?”

“Uh... not really, I guess.”

"I think you might have a shot with Gordon, if you wanted."

The way Gordon stared at Sam, Dean's pretty sure he's not the Winchester brother the cook would prefer if given the choice.

"I don't think so."

"You disagree, or you don't swing that way?"

He fakes a breathy chuckle. “What’s with the third degree, man? I thought you had enough of me yesterday.”

He almost jumps out of his skin when Sam puts a warm hand on his shoulder. The touch is gentle and steadying, totally innocent, but Dean’s nerves process it wrong.

Sam smiles up at him from under his bangs, warm and secret. “Definitely not enough.”

 _What_?

It’s a good thing they are interrupted at that moment because Dean was about to swallow his own spit and start choking.

“Sam!”

Jessica's laughter rings out bright and free as she trots toward them on a bronze-speckled horse. She brings the panting animal to a restless halt right in front of them and smiles hugely at her fiancé, but doesn't dismount.

"Hi guys. Everything okay?" The exhilaration is obvious in her voice.

"We're fine." Sam smiles up at her and wow, talk about your radiant familiarity right there. Whatever Dean thought he just saw in the kid’s eyes a second ago... well, clearly it was nothing. It doesn’t hold a candle to _this_. "You?"

"I'm great. Missed my baby." She caresses the horse's neck with a delicacy that Dean reserves for his own metal baby.

"Looks like she missed you, too."

It's very chick-flick of them, Dean thinks, what with the horse and the grass and the pretty people and the sky of the bluest blue... it seems like whenever Sam and Jess are together the world arranges itself at its most picturesque, as though their love deserves the best frame.

Well, good on them. Just... just great.

"Think we can pull off asking for a picnic lunch?" Jess is asking Sam, pleading. "Just... one meal without my mother's commentary?" But before Sam can answer, she looks at Dean. "Aid and abet us and you're totally invited, Dean."

Romantic picnic with the engaged lovebirds versus companionable lunch in the kitchen with Jo? No freakin' contest.

Dean fakes a chuckle. "I'm good, but y'all go ahead."

"Oh come on," Jess cajoles.

"Yeah, Dean," Sam echoes, an indecipherable look on his face. "Come on."

Uh. Seriously, _what_?

"I-I don't think--"

Goddamn but they do make one hell of a pretty picture.

"Oh shit," Jess says suddenly, jolting up and causing her horse to neigh in protest. "Sam, my mom's watching."

Dean turns to check and spots Miranda at the door of the house, running gear back on.

"You mind...?" Jess starts to ask, which is weird given what happens next.

Sam gives a minute shake of his head, then reaches up two arms thick as tree-trunks for Jess to brace herself against as she tips sideways. She slides down and Sam leans up and then they kiss. A tendril of spun gold falls free from Jess' ponytail and tickles Sam's cheek, the breeze picking that moment to ruffle Sam's hair and the collar of his shirt.

Dean watches them do it, caught weirdly off guard even though he really shouldn’t have been. His stomach churns even as Jess’ helmet slides forward and knocks Sam on the forehead, causing them both to laugh and draw apart.

“She gone?” Jess asks.

Dean forgot what had precipitated this spectacle. He checks to see if Miranda is still pretending to stretch on the front lawn and sees a pink-and-green figure following the path that leads away from the house.

“She’s...” he trails off when Sam bodily lifts Jess back up to rights, just with the strength of his arms. Geesh. Talk about a free pass to the Gun Show.

Given Dean’s lack of response, Jess ends up craning her neck to check for herself. “ _Yes_.” She lifts up her gloved hand and Sam chuckles before high-fiving her.

Dean snaps out of whatever just happened to him in time to realize this entire scene has been really bizarre.

“Wait, why did you have to check that Mrs. Moore was looking--”

“Seriously Dean, eat out with us. The day is young.”

 _Eat out with us_. She’s smirking like she knows exactly what she said, and before Dean can clear his throat and attempt to regain his voice, she's trotting away.

*

Turns out there’s no eating out for anyone, though, because Jessica is kidnapped by her mother for a shopping trip into town (and Dean overhears enough of the passive-aggressive monologue regarding Jess' wardrobe to imagine what that's about) and Sam is kidnapped by her father, probably for a similarly-themed evening of excruciating conversation.

Bela’s been invited to dinner as a guest again but Dean hasn't (...again), which is actually the first damn break he's caught since arriving here.

Or so he thought.

Dean's a damn good lock picker. Supernaturally good, as some people in the business seem to think--and it's thanks to a little charm hanging from a chain in the twisted metal pieces that make up his kit. Skill goes into it too, but a coaxing edge for the stubborn door never hurt anybody, a coating of spell work to smooth the way for his nimble maneuvering.

Bela's door won't fucking budge.

She's clearly got better hoodoo than he does, and belongs to a class of bounty hunter he's never come up against before. It's going to take more mojo than he has in his repertoire, which means one thing only.

“Dude, I’m kind of busy right now,” Jo snaps at him behind a teetering pile of folded towels. “This housecleaning shit is not my style, and if I don’t keep up they’ll fire me. And then where will you be?”

“Alone and happier for it?”

"Seriously Dean, get outta my way."

Dean grudgingly steps aside so she can access the stairs (there's an in-house elevator but Stella is managing the cleaning cart) and then follows her up.

"What help are you if you're not going to _actually help_ me, Jo?"

“Weren’t you supposed to call Olivia Lowry for information on Bela?” Jo mutters over her shoulder.

“She’s not picking up.”

"And that's it? The mighty Dean Smith, fixer for hire, solver of problems, rescuer of damsels--just throws the towel?"

Dean snorts at the unintended pun.

“You know what I meant, Dean. You just gonna give up on that?”

“No," Dean tells her narrow back. "I'm just pursuing avenues more likely to yield immediate results. Which is what I need _you_ for."

"I didn't say I wouldn't help, I just need half and an hour--"

"I don't have half an--"

" _Ah_ \--"

Before Dean has time to process what happened he's got an armful of fake-maid and towels are tumbling down around him.

"Whoa!"

"Oh god, are you okay?"

Jo probably weighs less than the towels she dropped so Dean had no trouble catching her fall; she's good. Her ego, on the other hand, might not dent so elegantly. She's a lot like him in that respect.

"I'm fine," she huffs, pushing herself away from Dean's chest and straightening her ponytail. She spares a second to survey the mess around them before bending over to start picking up towels.

A couple of steps above them, Sam rushes to do the same.

"You sure? I'm sorry, I wasn't looking--"

"Don't worry about it."

Dean, whose reaction time to a sudden weight falling in his arms was less than a second, freezes in place at the sight of his brother.

"Hey, Dean.”

"Hey." It sounds like a grunt, not a word.

He nods manfully and turns to pick up a fallen towel two steps down, hoping to catch his breath. It doesn't really work.

"So Dean... will I see you at dinner?"

Dean's plan to avoid falling into the soul-sucking power of Sam's eyes is sabotaged by the undisguised interest in the kid's voice. The tonal shift Sam has done overnight is really messing him up; the guy is so  _eager_  all of a sudden.

"I, uh... no. I'm not exactly a high roller around here."

Sam frowns. "Oh." He hands Jo his stack of folded towels without looking away from Dean, and now Jo's looking at Dean too. Her gaze is significantly less kind. "That's too bad."

What Dean's pulse does at that throwaway comment just cements the levels of pitiful he has achieved. Christ. "Yeah. Well. See ya 'round, Sam."

Sam catches onto the unsubtle dismissal and nods, but not before shooting Dean another bright smile and a: "Looking forward to it." He's down the steps and out the front door in seconds.

Jo hasn't gone back to picking stuff up. A half-folded survivor lies on top of a pile that barely reaches her chin.

"Uh... what was _that_."

She's staring at him like she's never seen him before.

Dean shifts uncomfortably and his hand flies to the back of his neck before he can remind himself that Jo knows that's one of his nervous tells. "What was what?"

"The... Dean, he looked at you like..."

"Like what?"

But it must come out wrong because Jo's eyes widen at his tone.

"Wait, do _you_...?" she looks like she doesn't really want to ask the question, and Dean definitely needs her to stop talking before it happens.

"It's not like that."

They both wince a little.

"What is it like, then?"

"Like nothing. Like he's my brother and he's getting married."

"Oh my god," she says faintly.

Dean can't be here anymore. He starts to stomp back down and resolves to avoid Jo for the rest of his life.

"Dean," she calls after him. " _Dean_."

He stops at the bottom of the steps but doesn't turn around.

"Please don't be an idiot." There's a pause and then she amends; "Please be less of an idiot than you usually are."

Dean throws her the finger over his shoulder and stalks away. But not outside.

*

Jo was right about one thing, though. No, not _that_ , but about Olivia Lowry and investigating Bela. Dean can't afford to sleep on this, he needs another injection of adrenalin, a lead he can pursue. Getting to know Sam can't distract him from his mission--in fact, it should be relegated to minor inconvenience.

Decision made, he resolves to cut back on the overindulgence that is spending time with Sam. He’s got five more days in Sam's life and he's allowed to orbit the periphery, but he needs to stop interacting. Keep to the sidelines, as it were.

He tries three of Olivia's phone numbers, then he calls Ellen, who doesn't have anything else besides what she already told him. Then he calls Bobby.

_"Dean."_

"Hey."

_"How's it going?"_

He sighs into the receiver. "Not good. She recognized Jo somehow."

There's a pause. Then: " _Ah, shit. You both okay? Is Sam?"_

"She hasn't retaliated yet, but I'm stumped here, Bobby. None of Ellen's contacts knows about her, I still have no fucking clue where she's getting her information, what she plans to do with it, why I'm even _here_ \--"

_"She obviously wanted you in Sam's path. You can't think of a reason why?"_

"No. Unless she knows about the demon, too, and wants to get us both killed. But that's the most backwards, inefficient way to gank someone I ever heard of."

_"So focus on her, then. Her motives. Weak spots. That's what's gonna get you out of this mess."_

"Yeah, thanks, I know that, but I haven't got jack on that front either. They've got me running errands and shit all day and--"

Someone knocks on his door.

"Ah shit, Bobby I gotta go."

He's halfway across the room when the door opens without a warning.

"Mr. Smith?" It's Carl Moore.

"Uh, hey. What's... what is it?"

"You've been invited to join us for dinner."

He lingers near the doorway and doesn’t come in, clearly in a hurry to leave again.

"... Huh?"

"Dinner. It starts in fifteen minutes. Please don't be late. But dress appropriately."

He's closing the door behind himself by the time Dean reacts. "Hey, what--hold on." He walks towards the man and distantly catalogues the nervous step back the movement elicits. There's a certain type of person who doesn't do well with Dean's confident, vaguely dangerous aura. Usually it's the employers who see him as a rabid dog they get to sic on their problems, rather than a person with an affinity for creative thinking.

"What is it, Smith?"

Carl has a generically handsome face, and although tall his stance is anything but imposing. Dean realizes he barely spares the man a thought if Miranda is in the room.

"Why am I suddenly on the VIP list? I thought you wanted to keep my presence here on the down low."

"Your presence was requested. Miranda thought it was best to avoid arguments."

"My presence was...?"

"Seems you're doing your job well. The Wesson boy wanted you there."

The door shuts in Dean's face.

*

Another time, he would've called Jo under the pretense of a wardrobe crisis in order to shoot the shit for a bit and to give himself some time to decompress, or whatever.

_'Wait, do you...?'_

Do you what.

_Do you like him? Do you have a crush on him? Do you have any sense, Dean? At all?_

As is, Dean tromps into the dining hall by the time everyone's already sat down.

“Mr. Smith, good of you to join us. Finally."

"Yeah, thanks for the last-minute invite."

Oh, what? Like he's gonna dance to their weirdo ritualistic little tune.

The empty seat is next to Sam and Dean ignores the voice in his head yelling about this being a shitty idea in order to go sit beside his brother. Sam shoots him a warm smile and the voice in Dean's head gets louder.

Unfortunately, Bela's sitting opposite him.

"Dean. How goes the search for a decent caterer?"

"Ongoing. Is the food coming in anytime soon? I'm starving."

There's an awkward pause and then a snort from Sam's left, where Jessica sits at his other side.

"So... Sam," Miranda prompts. "The other night you were telling us about your volunteer work at the dog shelter."

“Well, it’s hardly... I can't do much, with coursework keeping me busy.” Sam makes a face. “I just help out there in the weekends, feed them, clean them up sometimes—“

"Oh _come on_."

Okay, so Dean had meant to mostly keep a low profile and eat in silence, but he can't help it. Because _seriously_. How is Sam even real?

Everyone's staring at him now, Sam included.

He rolls his eyes. "What? I can't be the only guy here having a bit of trouble with this paragon of virtues." He doesn't look at Sam when he snorts. "Puppies? Really?"

"Hear hear," Jess says.

"I'm sure everybody has flaws if one digs deep enough." The glare Miranda is sending Dean's way might melt the skin off his face.

Dean shrugs. "Eh."

And that mostly sets the tone for the rest of the evening.

Jo is one of the two women serving the dishes and she looks surprised to see Dean at the table, but only for a second. Dean avoids meeting her eyes and she doesn't say anything, although she does passive-aggressively set down a salad bowl in front of him.

Making the Moores uncomfortable is a useful distraction to Sam's presence by his side. The kid keeps trying to engage him with frequently asked questions and comments, clearly vying for Dean’s attention, so Dean overcompensates by becoming the center of attention. Within the first couple of minutes he has Jess laughing so hard she chokes on her toast, and her parents looking increasingly like they regret everything that lead up to this moment. What can he say? Dean knows how to work a crowd, even one with a combined GDP of a small country--whether it’s to rile someone up or put them at ease (or in this case, do both at the same time).

“Dean? Don’t you want to try the mushroom soup?”

He ignores the question again, shitty as it feels, and launches into another half-true anecdote that’s going to scandalize the old folk. Dismissing Sam is the right thing to do; Bela is mostly quiet throughout the meal but she shoots him a micro-nod every time Dean does so.

By the time dessert rolls around, Dean is the most confident he’s felt since he met Bela, if not the happiest. But who cares about his happiness--he'll find a vital clue to this entire mess in Bela's room tomorrow, and he's going to keep Sam safe by making sure he stays at arm's length, and everything's gonna turn out just fine for everybody.

He may have drunk enough froofy champagne to convince himself of all these things.

"Aw, yes," he groans as a slice of lightly steaming pie is put in front of him with a ball of half-melted ice-cream on top. "Thanks, Stella."

"Whatever."

"You like pie?"

Sam is looking at him again.

Sam is so fucking pretty.

"I love pie," Dean admits, shoving a forkful into his mouth. Apparently pie will weaken his defenses enough to get Sam an actual response. This is blueberry, which is not his favorite (apple all the way, baby) but the way the sugar melts on his tongue has him half-closing his eyes in bliss. " _Fuck_ , that's good," he growls.

When he focuses his gaze again, he sees out of the corner of his eye that Sam is still staring at him, but the friendly smile on his lips has given way to something else.

"Geez. You really do love it."

Dean nods, still using his peripheral vision (and only that) to keep track of what Sam’s doing. "You have no idea."

There's a stilted pause and suddenly the smirk is back on Sam's face like nothing happened. "Try me," he challenges.

Yikes. Sam could have phrased that any other way, why would he risk his fiancée overhearing something that could technically be mistaken for--wait. That actually reminds Dean of the weird vibe the happy couple had this morning, and the unanswered questions he was left with.

"Actually, Sam... can I ask you something?"

Sam leans in closer, like he's preening under the sudden attention after an evening of Dean's cultivated avoidance. "Anything."

 _Everything_ , Dean's brain clamors. Dean is used to ignoring it by now.

"What was up with you and the missus this morning?"

"Hm?"

"That whole... kissing scene with Jess' mom watching. What was that about?"

Their eyes meet and hold again, and this time Sam leans in close enough that Dean can feel his steamy breath fan over his face. He can't look away now that he's given in. Caught, again, in their weird little stalemate. Sam's eyes are dark tonight, like the X-Files poster on Ash’s door. It scrambles Dean all up, overloads his circuits so he can't get an accurate read.

"Jess and I... we're not exactly--"

"Sam. We should go to bed."

For the first time, Jessica's hand lands on Sam's shoulder firmly. Her chair scrapes backwards and she's standing, to the obvious annoyance of her parents.

"See you tomorrow, mom. Dad."

"Goodnight, sweetheart."

Sam's still looking at Dean.

"Sam. C'mon, let's go."

She tugs him away from the dining room and Dean nods at Sam as he goes. He doesn't understand what just happened.

Bela just fixes Dean with a smug look and uses the excuse to flit off herself, so he's left alone with the Moores. He's thinking to make a break after the happy couple to try and figure out what that was about, but a pointed cough stops him.

"Mr. Smith. A moment."

Dean turns to Miranda and Carl Moore.

"What?"

Miranda, in particular, looks furious. Contained fury in a burgundy dress, but still. "I know what we'll get on the Wesson boy."

Dean's eyebrows fly up. "Excuse me?"

"Don't tell me you haven't noticed the way he looks at you?"

“Huh?”

“I was watching him tonight. It’s quite obvious, isn’t it? He couldn’t keep his eyes off of you.”

Oh.

"I'm sorry--what?"

"He's clearly interested in men. Whether that's as well as women or not is irrelevant, since he's clearly interested in _you_."

This can't be happening.

"So I would like you to show some interest in return, and get him to leave my daughter alone."

This is some sort of waking nightmare.

"What are you... what exactly do you suggest I--"

"Seduce him, Mr. Smith. That's what I'm asking."

Next to her, Carl is quiet and although his face betrayed surprise at his wife's sudden change of tactic, he can't be counted on for support against this insane idea.

"You want me to seduce the guy your daughter wants to marry."

"Yes. I imagine your brand of charm is necessary in your line of work, and we’re lucky enough that it affects impressionable boys like Sam. So I’m telling you to use it."

Dean squares his shoulders and broadens his stance, even as he attempts to digest this latest chunk of insanity. Low, deliberately quiet, he asks: "Do you have any idea who I am?"

But she doesn't look frightened.

"You're a man with something to lose, Mr. Smith. That's all I need to know. I don't care if you're used to a different kind of playing field and I certainly don't care if you think this is beneath you. You'll do it or I'm calling Bela back in."

Once again, he has no fucking choice.


	6. Five

Day number three and he's almost at the halfway mark. Last night was one hell of a wake-up call; Dean's time to gain any advantage over Bela is running out.

He gets out of bed early and pads downstairs in hope of stealing breakfast straight from the kitchen and escaping the family altogether. Sadly, that hope is dashed when Miranda corners him near the downstairs bathroom.

“Mr Smith. Good. You’re taking Sam and Jessica for a walk to the gazebo. They are considering it as a possible venue.”

She steers him away from the food and towards the entryway.

“Bela has a binder for you, I think...” And in a sudden and dramatic lowering of her voice, she hisses. “And I’m going to need you to put our little plan into action. Now. Here.” She fishes his fake glasses out of his shirt pocket and presses them to his chest. “Bat those eyelashes at him until the boy trips on those big feet of his-- _darling_ , you look gorgeous,” the latter is back to her normal volume and not directed at him. Jessica is standing by the door in a beautiful sundress.

“Hi Mom. Hey Dean.”

She looks distinctly less friendly than she did the last time they went out for a walk. Dean figures he screwed up last night, he’s just not sure exactly what he did.

“Oh, good. Sam, you decided to join your future bride.”

Indeed, Sam and Bela appear in that moment. Dean gets suckered in the stomach by one of Bela’s stupid-thick binders and, still wheezing, follows the couple outside.

*

“So... I think I’m going to check on Firestorm again.”

Something about Jess’ tone is a little off, like she’s reluctant to speak the words coming out of her mouth, but the significant glance she directs at Sam makes Dean suspect that’s because someone’s asked her to do so.

Nothing good can come of this.

“Actually—“

“Sure, we don’t mind.” Sam smiles beatifically. “Go ahead. We’ll meet you at the door in about a half hour?”

“Great.” It doesn’t sound like she thinks it’s great at all. “Take a couple of pics with your phone or something, yeah? Let’s pretend we gave this a lot of thought.”

She leaves with a final look of extreme and obvious distrust aimed full-on at Dean.

“Uh... did I do something?”

Sam’s eyebrows rise.

“Oh I’m sorry, are you talking to me again?”

Dean winces. “Is that what she’s mad about?”

“You were a total dick to me last night, man. She’s just... protective.”

Fucking adorable. “...Great.”

They start walking down the path to the gazebo.

“Lets make this quick, okay? We go there, you snap a couple of pictures, slap a filter on that and we’re back, right?”

Sam chuckles breathily. “Oh, so it wasn’t a fluke. You’re just gonna be an asshole from now on?”

“What do you want from me, man?”

“The truth.”

Dean almost trips on nothing. He keeps looking ahead though; no sneaky glances sideways to try to read Sam’s facial expressions this time.

“About what?” he quips.

“About you.”

Pulse pounding in his ears, Dean keeps focusing on the grass he’s stepping on.

“What about me.”

Because he wasn’t expecting it, the caress of soft finger-pads against the back of his hand makes him wrench the arm away at first.

Sam looks tense as a bowstring; almost awkward about it in a way that’s riding the line between obvious nerves and adorable timidity.

“What are you.” Dean can’t quite finish asking. “What.”

Sam reaches out and grabs his hand again. This time it sticks.

“What,” Dean says again. It bears repeating.

Sam’s palm is soft against Dean’s rough calloused skin. Makes one wonder if Sam is silky-soft like that all over. Where he likes to be touched. Why he’s doing any of this if not to scramble Dean’s brain up real bad.

“Are you superstitious at all?” Sam murmurs.

What?

“What.”

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

What the fuck is going on here.

“Ghosts?”

“Ghosts. Vampires. Creatures of the night, that sorta thing.”

“... Are you _high_?”

A flicker of frustration passes over Sam’s face but it quickly dissolves. His tone returns to normal, too. “Sorry. Forget it. I...” he drops Dean’s hand. “Bad joke.”

Dean gapes as Sam walks ahead of him for a bit and then breaks into a light jog all the way to the steps to the gazebo up ahead. It’s a beautiful structure of white-painted wood peeking out from between a thick web of vines and carefully tended flowers. Sam climbs up in two long-legged strides and crosses the space to lean against the farthest bannister with his back to Dean.

Dean stares after him for a moment, then jogs around the circle until he’s standing directly below the guy. It's not very high and eventually Sam will have to meet his eyes.

“What the hell was that about, man?”

“Told you,” Sam mutters, scratching the bannister and avoiding Dean’s gaze. “Joking. Friends can joke around, right? S’not my fault your sense of humor is terrible.”

Dean heaves a desperate laugh. “Friends?” he echoes, pained. “You and me? We come from opposite-land, Sam, we have nothing in common.”

“I guess.” Sam looks at him. “Different people can be friends, though.”

‘Friends’. Dean takes stock of the way they are positioned, even body-language wise; the way Sam’s leaning down and Dean’s arching up and they follow each other’s movements almost like mirrors at times.

They will never be friends.

“Wanna head back?”

“No. Come up.”

“Sammy, you know I get all tingly when you take control like that...”

Sam rolls his eyes and heaves himself off the balustrade.

Dean tells himself he wouldn't be making these sorts of comments if he and Sam had actually grown up together. Of course he wouldn't. _That_ would be messed up. This is just... just...

“Come up and _shut_ up,” Sam calls over his shoulder.

So Dean, fool that he is, does as Sam bids, and comes up into the gazebo, and switches the conversation to one of his wildest high-school era escapades, and asks Sam about his foster-families and whether he still keeps in touch with them, and forces himself to laugh at the appropriate times and doesn’t think about each and every one of Sam’s smiles in return. Doesn’t think about Sam’s smiles at all, or the way they sometimes look soft and real, other times carry a brittle edge to them that doesn’t hold up so well to direct sunlight.

*

It’s all connected. Sam’s insight into Dean’s world, this seemingly lifelong stream of questions, as though he’s got a scatter of pieces—as though he’s been given a few random clues, and he’s trying to put the puzzle together all by himself.

Dean looks out the window of his room and presses his forehead hard against the glass. Everything is so much more complicated than it started out to be, and it started out complicated enough already.

Jessica’s sundress catches his eye out in the front lawn. She’s standing by one of the apple trees.

Dean perks up when he sees Sam join her. They immediately start talking, in a way that looks heated. Call him paranoid, but Dean’s pretty sure he’s the subject of the day.

He needs to hear what they are saying.

Diving for his duffel, his hands are already automatically scrabbling for the side-pocket where he keeps a particular set of tools. He cracks open a window (gently, because hinges tend to creak when you least want them to) and spreads his kit out on his lap. An alcohol wipe is used to clean a small sewing needle, which he then pricks his pinkie with. It’s enough blood to draw the smallest sigil on the corner of the glass.

It isn’t perfect, but amidst the sounds of the wind ruffling the blades of glass he can pick up a badly amplified version of the conversation.

Listening in on other people is a staple of his profession after all.

"I have to tell him about us."

"Why?"

"I... it's complicated. But I wouldn't do it if it wasn't important. And I'll make sure it doesn't get back to your folks, I promise."

"That's not what I'm worried about, Sam. But you're... what? Into the whole 'rogue from the bad side of town' thing now?" A huff like thunder. "Look. I get the resident bad boy craving, I do, but... that guy? I mean he's gorgeous, but he seems dangerous. _Really_ dangerous, not smoking-weed-in-the-back-of-his-classic car dangerous. And he was a _jerk_ to you last night."

A pause.

"You were being really obvious, Sam, there’s no way he didn’t pick up on those anvil-sized hints, okay honey? The guy was just being mean-spirited.”

Still, Sam doesn’t answer.

“Seriously Sam, what's going on?"

"I can't... tell you." Sam sounds guarded, maybe the closest to angry Dean's heard him.

"That's what worries me, though. That's exactly it. Since when do we keep secrets?"

There's a long silence after that. And then Sam says: "It's about the dreams, okay?"

"... Oh."

"Yeah. He's... a part of it. I can't tell you more than that, I'm sorry."

"Okay." Her tone has softened completely, changed into something a little weary and a lot gentle. "Okay, I get it now. I won't push, you know I won't. But please be careful."

"I always am."

"If you wanna back out, I'd understand. I told you, you didn't have to--"

"Jess. It's fine. I said I'd help and I'm happy to do it. Just... leave Dean to me. I've got a plan, it's under control. But I need to be able to tell him how it is between you an' me, okay? So that I can... get him to reveal some things."

"Sounds like a convoluted plan, Sam." Another sigh. "But of course it's okay with me. If that's what you need."

She walks away first, into the house. Dean smudges the sigil and sprints out of his room, determined to intercept them for no logical reason he can come up with on the spot.

"Hey," Jess salutes him when she sees him at the top of the stairs. She doesn't look very happy about it.

"Hey. How was Firestorm doing?"

“He’s good, thanks.”

She stalks off somewhere but Dean’s already refocused his attention on Sam, who has just come in after her.

"Hi, Dean."

He looked troubled at first glance, but quickly shines his spotlight-smile on Dean and apparently that thing is designed to blinds its victim to Sam’s emotional cues.

_'... I've got a plan, it's under control.'_

Dean feels dumber than a bag of dicks.

He's been floundering around Sam since he first saw him but that's no fucking excuse for this amateur-level shit. Sam's not some innocent wilting flower, he's figured out Dean's lying to him and wants information. And Dean actually thought Sam might want...

God, he's pathetic.

"Hey to you too, sunshine."

Of course the sudden generous smiles and almost (and not-so-almost) innuendos couldn't actually mean... obviously Sam never wanted him for a second. _Obviously_. Dean never truly believed that, right? So the sinking in his stomach is probably just hunger.

But to think, he actually figured Sam for a paragon of virtues that was incapable of stepping on a ladybug, let alone telling a lie to manipulate someone.

"What are you up to today, Dean?"

"Work," Dean says immediately. "Yeah, I'm swamped with work. Just... working hard for the money, y'know. Work-related..." he trails off. "... stuff."

"Oh." Sam is undeterred. From what exactly, Dean's probably about to find out. "I was hoping you'd drive me into town? Apparently nothing I own is even remotely appropriate for the engagement party we're having on Sunday."

Dean blanches. If this gets back to Miranda she's going to make him go, and if he tries to refuse she'll tell Bela, who's _definitely_ going to make him do what Miranda says.

"I... you did just hear me mention all the--"

"Work, yes, got it. But like... isn't this technically part of your job as well?"

"Babysitting?"

"Helping."

"By driving you around."

"So helpful."

"By taking you _shopping_."

Sam shrugs. He's still smiling, the bastard.

"Well, yeah. You’re kind of my Obi-Wan Kenobi."

“Props for quote usage, but I really doubt I’m your only hope.”

Dean takes a breath in hopes of having a miraculous inspiration for plausible deniability but Sam ruins it immediately with a pleading, devastating look Dean's way and a:

"Please?"

His eyes are so--what even is that--how does he even make his eyes look so large? And his nose is all scrunched up and his forehead--

"Fine."

Sam's smile goes up a few enthusiastic notches and Dean is so fucked.

"Awesome. Thanks so much, Dean."

And then, _then_ he steps forward and puts a hand on Dean's shoulder. How pathetically obvious has Dean been this whole time that Sam instantly knew to use his appeal against him for maximum damage?

"S'gonna be fun. Just us, y’know?"

Dean knows he's being played, but he's trapped in this too, for reasons Sam doesn't seem privy to. Because despite her inherent evil, Dean doesn't think Bela lied about not having told Sam they are related.

"C'mon."

Sam looks almost meanly determined, and in retrospect, his acting skills aren't actually all that great. It seems obvious, now, that he hasn't let go of anything from the first day.

"Whatever you say," Dean mutters, exhausted.

"Damn right."

*

“Oh my God, _you’re_ the owner of the carbon monoxide factory.”

Dean's jaw drops. That comment came from someone who should have been genetically programmed to love the Impala unconditionally.

"Do you know what a car like that does to the environment?"

Dean tries to remind himself that Sam is minoring in environmental studies (his online stalking got him that much). These sorts of comments are no more than baby has to endure on occasion, and they simply come from people who can’t appreciate her beauty instantly. Sure, he’s pretty disappointed that Sam appears to be one of those people, but it’s nothing against the kid. Patience is a virtue and all that yada yada.

And then Sam says: "It's a dinosaur."

Okay, what the fuck.

"It's a _classic_."

"It's an overcompensating dick-metaphor."

There isn't enough air in Dean's lungs for a moment for him to even generate enough decibels to respond. Is he _really_ related to this kid? The goddamn nerve--

"Disrespect my car again, man," he breathes finally.

Sam seems oblivious, hand on the Impala’s hood. "Or what?"

"Trust me? You don't wanna find out."

Sam does look up at him at that. He smiles sweetly.

"Maybe I do."

When Dean gets pissed sometimes he gets turned on and it's not because of Sam it's because of his messed up childhood and a lifetime of self-hatred _it's not because of Sam_. He's still mostly angry, just... ten-percent a little hot around the collar.

"Maybe it'd be the _last_ thing you ever do."

“Hm.” Sam keeps smiling. “Maybe not.”

“Get in the fucking car.”

He must imagine the momentary gleam of triumph in Sam's eyes.

Or maybe not.

*

Shopping with Sam turns out to be a pretty counter-productive experience, seeing as how neither Sam nor Dean have a minimal understanding of fashion.

“What about this?”

“I just... I just, I _don’t_ have an opinion, Dean.”

Dean sighs. “You should’ve asked your girlfriend for help.”

“Jess is dealing with enough.”

Sam hangs the shirt back on its rack and blows out a tired breath. This is the third store they’ve gone into and so far nothing has been purchased with the purpose of the engagement party. Dean figured the event was black tie but Sam insisted he already has a suit, he needs a more general wardrobe upgrade... whatever that means.

“She doesn’t seem to have a great relationship with her folks.”

“Yeah, no kidding.”

“Why’s that? If you don’t mind my asking.” Information is power, after all.

Sam shrugs. “Different worldview, I guess. Jess isn’t a big fan of the way the family business is run, and she doesn’t understand the need for the mansion and the help and stuff when all that money could go to better causes.”

Dean takes that in. Jessica Moore attends Stanford University and she seemed to like her pet horse just fine, but he supposes it doesn’t have to make her a full-on hypocrite to disagree with the way her parents handle money.

“What do you think?”

Sam seems taken aback by the question. “I... I’m with Jess. I think they are stupidly old-fashioned and small-minded. They won’t even let her take over the firm until she’s married, can you imagine?”

“Seriously?”

“ _Yeah_.”

A thought flits by that Dean can’t quite ignore; a thought about Jess’ motive for marrying Sam instead of the reverse, as her parents suspect. Having met Sam, it seems obvious that any sane living person would want to keep him forever, but what if...

“You never told me how you two met.”

Sam shoots him a look like ‘duh’. “It’s not like we’ve known each other that long, man.”

“Still.”

A small smile tugs at Sam’s lips. “Well, it was my freshman year—oh hey, what about this one?”

He’s holding up a plain black shirt in the ‘basic’ section, and Dean’s indifference takes a brief nap at the thought of Sam in it.

“Whatever you want, Sam.”

Sam eyes him for a moment and then heads over to the changing rooms. The woman manning them is about to stop Dean from following him but Sam shoots the full-force of his pleading eyes at her and says: “I want him to see me in it.”

She folds like wet paper, and Dean just follows Sam blindly, mentally underlining 'less innocent than he seems' and ‘manipulative flirt’ on the list of things he knows about his brother.

“So like I was saying?” comes Sam’s voice from the other side of the changing room door. “I met Jess freshman year. We had a couple of classes together and one time I—mph, I accidentally sat in her unofficially-assigned seat.”

Dean can picture it. Jess, looking more or less like she does now, which is movie-star good. And Sam, a nervous bundle with his puppy dog-eyes. A goddamn Cinderella story, isn’t it. With Jess as the prince and Sam as Cinderella, of course.

Something twists in Dean’s stomach that shouldn’t have.

“We just kinda... clicked. She became my best friend in no time.”

The door opens and out comes Sam, hair ruffled and shoulders hunched self-consciously.

“What d’you think?”

Dean forces a snort. “I think it’s three sizes too small, Fabio.”

“Really?” Sam twists around to look in the mirror. “I thought it was okay.”

It’s not okay. It looks like the top half was painted on and the bottom flaps about Sam’s tiny waist and it’s just ridiculous, is what it is.

“Go take it off and we can check out another—“

He never finishes the thought because Sam just did as he was told and took the shirt off, right there, right in the middle of Dean’s sentence.

His chest could span a whole continent and his tan is stupidly flattering. Revealed are broad planes of skin for Dean to map out, to check for scars and birthmarks and signs of life, skin for Dean to lick and bite and scratch. The muscle had definitely been hinted at by his build before, but out in the open one can see Sam is anatomy-lesson worthy, nude-sculpture ready, crick-in-your-neck inducing _ripped_.

“All right, Narcissus, we get it. You can cover up now, just be careful you don’t fall on your face.”

Sam shoots him an innocent smile. “Wow. You’ve got your pop culture and then you’ve got your ancient Greek mythology? Who are you, Dean Smith?”

“What can I say? I’m a mystery wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a smoking hot package.” But the words remind him of the first time he and Bela met, and of the fact that he's pushing the limits of the golden rule: keep Sam at a safe distance.

It’s been enough interaction for one day. “Anyway, we should head back to the house.”

“Already?” Sam steps towards him, still half-naked.

“Yeah. Wrap it up, c’mon.”

He’s turning away but Sam puts out an arm and grabs his elbow.

“ _What_?” Dean snaps.

Sam doesn’t look quite so innocent anymore. His eyes are slits and he’s a little flushed.

“Am I making you uncomfortable, Dean?” he asks, low.

Dean doesn’t remember ever being caught with his hand in a jar: cookie-, swear- or otherwise, but the feeling must be something like this. It's almost enough to make a man develop a grudging respect for Sam's willingness to commit to this con.

“No,” he lies.

“’Cause you said you didn’t know me from Adam. Right?”

“... Right.”

He can hear his own pulse in his ears.

“So there’s no reason for you to be uncomfortable.”

Dean stares at him. Sam stares right back, and this 'plan' he was telling Jessica about is... what, to coax the truth about their shared past right out of Dean?

"I'm... not," Dean whispers.

Sam is warm, so close, and he's large. Tall and broad and beautiful, flushed cheeks and heaving chest and all. The need to kiss him returns, bigger and badder than ever.

"No?"

The moment goes on, builds on itself, until it takes some of the deliberate intensity from Sam's gaze and softens it, turns it into something more vulnerable. Dean can't help his reaction to Sam's ploy even though he knows it's all fake, because with every second that passes Sam becomes a better actor, even going as far as to pretend to lose his breath staring at Dean's mouth.

“Sir? I’m going to have to ask you to put on a shirt, please.”

They both jump and the moment breaks.

*

Dean’s determined to take another crack at Bela’s room before lunchtime or face the awkwardnessand ask Jo for help. Too bad he and Sam are met by Miranda and Bela at the _freaking door_.

“Boys. How was the shopping?”

Dean grunts. Sam smiles. “It was fun.”

“Next time, just stab me in the eye with a fork.”

“But your eyes are so _green_.”  _The kid will not fucking let up_. He says it too low for either woman to hear, but it raises the hairs on the back of Dean's neck.

“Anyway, I’m kinda hungry so I was gonna grab lunch—“

“I’ll come with you,” Sam says immediately.

“Uh... I was actually talking to Bela, Sam.”

Sam looks annoyed, but only for a second. “Oh. Sorry. Okay, mind if I join—“

“Bela and I were heading into town for lunch,” Miranda interrupts. “So you two should eat together if you want.”

“Definitely eat together,” Bela remarks, and leaves towards the garage building.

She leaves. She _leaves_.

Miranda follows her with a pointed look at Dean and a (probably unintendedly) obscene hand-gesture meant to signify him and Sam sticking together—actually it might have been on purpose, he wouldn’t put it past her. Whatever, Dean’s cycled past ‘eat together’ and straight towards his chance to break into Bela’s room at last. Because this may well be his only chance.

“Guess it’s just us, huh?” Sam says, his smile creeping back in. Dean hates how much it feels like making a fist of his intestines to turn that smile down, because now he knows it's _not goddamn real_.

“Can’t. Sorry, Sam, I’ve gotta... um. Meet you later.”

“What?”

“Got stuff to do! Work stuff, like I mentioned before, you know?” He’s already heading to the stairs.

“But—”

“No can do, Sam! Sorry!”

Sam doesn’t try to follow him, just stands at the bottom of the steps staring after him. Probably devising new ways of using Dean's attraction to him against him. Dean can't help a grudging respect for the ruthlessness he wouldn't have thought a preppy college boy capable of.

He's not going to underestimate his brother again, though.

*

He texts Jo.

*

“You’d be fine without me, huh?”

Dean rolls his eyes.

“Totally in control. My help wasn’t needed at all.”

“Are you done?”

“Done? I’m just getting warmed up.”

From his perch with the cleaning cart a few feet away it’s not easy to convey how utterly unimpressed he is with her gloating. Jo’s back is to him, because she’s on her knees at the door trying a variety of amulets to get it to open, but that’s actually a good thing.

Not having to meet her eyes makes it easier to maintain their usual ribbing. There’s no risk of acknowledging what may or may not be going on between him and Sam. That Jo may or may not have picked up on from a ten-second interaction. That Sam may or may not have been totally faking. That Dean may or may not have been... not faking at all.

“No need to thank me with such enthusiasm, Dean. You just stand there and look pretty—“

“I’m _keeping watch_ —“

“And let me do the work for you. The work you definitely didn’t need assistance to do. The work you...”

Thankfully, the door makes a sound like a _thunk_ and finally opens.

“Jackpot.”

Jo nods to herself, satisfied, and gets back up.

"You're welcome."

"Yeah, yeah, thanks a bunch."

He side-steps her and edges inside gingerly, hackles raised because he definitely wouldn't put booby-traps past Bela either.

“Keep lookout," he mutters to Jo, mostly to get her away in case anything does happen. She does as he asks without a word, bless the little brat.

Turns out Dean hasn’t gone more than two feet when he sees something wrong. And no, it’s not just the fact that Bela’s room is about twice the size of his own—there’s something scattered near the doorway. Dirt, or powder, or...

“Is that...?”

He crouches down and gingerly dips a finger in it.

"Salt?" Jo whisper-calls.

"No. It's black."

"Lemme see..."

"No, hang back a second."

He takes a careful look around. There's an open suitcase with clothes spilling out of it, and your usual assortment of soaps, lotions and make-up on the dresser. No obvious signs of tracing on (or under) the carpet, and no obvious sigils either.

Then his eyes land on the little box set on the doorframe.

He frowns, reaching up on his tiptoes to grab it. Something rattles inside after a brief shake, so figuring he's going to have to check it out, he opens the thing. His eyeballs don't melt or anything. A tiny vial and a creepy-looking skull-carving greet him cheerfully from a velvet-lined design.

"What is it?" Jo asks.

"Never seen anything like it. But, uh... doesn't look like a hex-bag to me."

He walks back to her and hands her the box. Instantly, he knows something's fucked. Probably them.

"Oh my God,” Jo wheezes.

“What?”

Her eyes are wild. "Dean... Dean, we have to get out of here. Now. And put that back where you found it. Oh _shit_ \--"

"What, what is it?"

"It's Devil's Shoestring!" she hisses. "And that must be Goofer dust, fuck..."

"What, what?"

He must not be moving fast enough for her liking because she wrenches the box out of his hands and hops up to put it back over the doorframe. Then she shuts the door behind her and grabs his hand to drag him away.

"Jo, what the hell does that shit ward against?" Because he's figured out that much.

Jo takes a shuddering breath and turns to meet his eyes even as she leads him to his room. "Hellhounds, Dean. It wards against hellhounds."


	7. Six

Unfortunately, the Moores have guests over that night and Jo is whisked away by her coworkers mere minutes after her intro to Demonic Scions 101. That leaves Dean to brave his own laptop and wade into the world of supernatural research.

Unlike regular research, which tends to involve more conning people into giving him the information he wants, supernatural lore is stupidly hard to navigate. It contradicts itself, sometimes it's just plain false, there are a bunch of exceptions, and telling the hokey from the legitimate stuff ends up being almost always down to dumb luck. The research part of it is actually most of the reason Dean bored quickly with Bobby's brand of hunting; it's not that he can't do it, he just... won't.

That being said, Dean hasn't earned the reputation he has just because he's a good-looking son of a bitch. Brains and brawn, he's the whole package, baby.

Three hours in his room and a decent Wi-Fi connection later, he knows his instincts were right, and Bela is probably scared shitless. He also a lot more about Hellhounds than he wishes he did.

Those things are bad news. Bad... like, the ultimate bad.

Apparently the Goofer dust stalls their entry into a home, as does Devil's shoestring over a doorway.

Why she's got him here and what she hopes to achieve are still two big questions without answers, but at least now he knows what direction he's looking in.

And the next logical step in the investigation is something he can't avoid; he needs to shut Sam down for good, and do it now. If the stakes are this high, he can't risk Sam tripping into something that might get him ripped apart.

*

"Sam! Hey, Sam!"

Catching up to the guy was not easy; Sam's legs are long and his pace is brutal. He's jogging along the same path Miranda took the day before, and he might be the only human in the world to do so without headphones.

"Wait up!"

Sam does immediately, another of those bright grins quickly turned on and now that he's looking for it Dean catches the plastic edges.

Sam's good, but Bela's better.

"Dean. Glad you decided to join me."

"Yeah, well," Dean pants. "I finally finished some of my..." he wheezes. Damn, he's out of shape.

"Work?"

"That's right."

Sam's grin softens for a moment, which is somehow worse. The day has taken a turn for the overcast but cloud cover won't save Dean at this point, and Sam seems to know it.

"That's great. You can help me with my stretches."

Dean rolls his eyes. "I'm not doing that."

Wide, innocent doe-eyes appraise his sweaty form. God, the humidity that comes before rainfall sucks.

"Why not?"

"'Cause you can do them by yourself, kiddo. This isn't the setup of some gay porno script, okay?"

Once again, and now that he's looking for it, Dean catches a flicker of annoyance on Sam's face before he angles his whole body in a suggestive stance. He's soaked as well; pit-stains and wet chest melding into a single splotchy mark like someone dumped a bucket over his head.

"You sure?" Sam says. To Dean's mouth.

Dean's had enough of this shit. Enough of being used and threatened and manipulated by everyone around him but especially enough of the gnawing feeling in his gut that pathetically wants to believe Sam's obvious lies so badly.

"Dude, you can't say shit like that," he snaps.

There. Now it's out in the open (literally).

"Why not? Because it's wrong and we shouldn't?"

 _Exactly. Because we're_ brothers _._

"Because you're getting _married_ ," Dean says, slow and enunciating like he's talking to a child. "To Jessica Moore? Whose land we are in? That ringing any bells?"

"No other reason?"

"You need _another reason_?"

A gust of cool air ruffles the wet bangs over Sam's eyes. He nods.

"Yeah, actually."

Dean is not someone with a hysterical disposition, but this goddamn kid is pushing his limits to exciting new lengths.

"What?"

"Jess and I... I've actually been meaning to tell you this all day. We're not... together."

"Huh?"

Sam scratches his stomach. "We're just friends. This wedding... remember what I told you about her conservative parents? How she can't inherit the firm until she's married?"

"You're kidding me."

"I never really... I thought I wasn't going to ever want to commit to anyone who wasn't..." He shakes his head. "Anyway, I thought I'd just be helping her out and it wouldn't cost me anything. So we staged this whole thing, but there's no actual romantic commitment between us."

The tentative tone is gone by the time a warm hand lands on the juncture of Dean's neck and shoulder.

"So I'm free where it counts."

God, this whole thing is out of control.

"What makes you think I care?"

Sam barely falters and recovers even faster than before. He takes a step closer, thumb daringly brushing the underside of Dean's jaw.

"I think parts of you care," he shoots back. "I mean, there's no reason why we can't have some fun, right?"

They are standing toe-to-toe, and despite Sam's touch it's almost weirdly confrontational rather than sexual, like they're about to fight instead of--

"There's _no other reason_ , right Dean? You haven't lied to me, right?"

His eyes glint with expectation, and the word 'brother' hangs in the air. He’s waiting for a confession.

Thunder rolls.

Dean can't say it; he _won't_ say it.

But he can do something else. Something worse.

"Okay then."

Sam stills. "Wh--"

Dean grabs the wet hair at the nape of his neck and yanks him down for a kiss that's meant to feel like a punch. If the sound Sam makes is any indication, it works.

It lasts all of a second, their mouths smashing together with lips half-parted (Dean's on purpose, Sam's in shock) before Sam shoves him.

"What the hell?" Sam breathes.

"What? Isn't this what you meant?" He spreads his arms like he’s daring Sam to throw a punch—a real one. "You got me. I want you." It's grossly easy to say. "I've been thinking about you since I first saw you. Isn’t that what this is about?”

Dean feels sick. This is all wrong, really; everything about this is backwards and upside-down.

"You... you're saying 'yes'?" Sam croaks, incredulous.

"Technically I said 'okay', but--"

Sam advances on him and steps right into his personal space again, forcing Dean's head to tilt up, their noses touching, warm puffs of air making his eyes sting. He's fucking huge, all-encompassing, horizon-obliterating--

"You want me?"

Dean's heart is in his throat but that part hasn’t been the lie. "Yeah."

Sam looks furious.

He grabs Dean's face in his hands and kisses him back, tilting him up the way it best suits their height difference and thrusting his tongue inside Dean's mouth. Dean thrums with desperation and self-loathing and he shivers, aching and overwhelmed and reduced to accepting whatever Sam chooses to do to him. His head is light like he swallowed helium and he feels weak.

His hands start to shake after a few moments and finally he fists them in the fabric around Sam's waist just to have something to hold on to. His lips are abused until they feel swollen, licked and bitten and kissed to near numbness, all the while Sam bleeds heat into his skin, sticky with sweat and his enormous hands so soft on Dean's cheeks, fingertips scratching into Dean's scalp. It isn't until Dean realizes he's hard and his hips are shifting to seek some friction that the situation permeates into his fuzzy brain again. He can't be the first one to stop but if someone doesn't yell 'uncle' soon he's going to be caught--

Then Sam grunts and drops a hand from his face to wrap his entire arm around Dean's waist and shove him closer, using his hip to push an obvious erection against, and Dean stopped breathing a few light-years ago but that, _that_ fries his whole system. He stops worrying, lets the airy weightless feeling take over and closes his eyes, abandoning his body at the mercy of Sam's whim. He feels... free.

"Fuck."

Sam shoves him away again, so hard Dean actually stumbles and falls on his ass. Painfully.

" _Ow_."

" _Why_ won't you just tell me?" Sam cries over another thunderclap.

"There's nothing to--"

"Don't! God." He wipes the back of his hand against his mouth. "I just... I don't _understand_ ," he says helplessly. He looks confused and hurt and they both know what he's talking about. "Why won't you just admit it?"

He’s as good as telling Dean that he’s going to dig and dig until he finds out the truth. And the truth is going to get him killed.

"I'm sorry," Dean says, loudly as thunder rolls again. He tries to convey how deeply he feels the emotion but he's afraid it comes out weak rather than solemn.

It starts to rain.

Sam's shoulders slump, like he's conceding defeat on the battle but not the war.

"Okay. I'm sorry too."

He takes off at a pace Dean doesn't feel up to matching. Dean's little brother, desperate and furious and hitting himself against the walls because he's being kept in the dark. Hating Dean because Dean can't tell him why and not knowing how fucking much it hurts to disappoint him.

Dean tells himself rain tastes salty sometimes.

*

The dinner guests are two people Dean doesn't know and whose names are pretty far from memorable. They fit in so well in the Moores’ ambience that they practically fade into the background. Their son, on the other hand, is a different matter.

"Who's this, then?" comes a booming voice the moment Dean is in view of the table. "His tie's untied! I like him already."

Dean looks down and confirms the worst, then searches for the source.

An attractive blond kid is sitting next to Sam, collar unbuttoned, proprietary hand on Sam's broad shoulder. Jess, who's on Sam's other side, is shooting him a look of open weariness.

“This is Dean Smith, Brady. He’s my assistant.” This comes from Bela, who sits opposite the blond kid and next to the only empty seat. Her tone rings familiar.

Brady is basically distilled sleaze in human form. His jokes contain barbs that are downright cruel at times, he's too sharp, too aware of how suave he sounds, and too hands-on when it comes to touching Sam.

He's also way too interested in Dean.

"So what is it that you do, exactly, Dean? When you're not cake-tasting and such."

Dean's answer is his standard lie and he doesn't miss the way Sam doesn't even bother to pretend to buy it, looking at Brady instead and muttering something in his ear that makes Brady chuckle and Dean want to punch a wall.

"Fascinating. And you assist Bela in... every aspect of her work?"

The Moores don't seem thrilled by their guest's attitude either and it disturbs Dean a little to side with them on anything. Bela's tinkling laughter is just as unsettling. She looks at Brady like they are old pals too.

The meal goes on and Dean takes comfort in Jo's periodic appearances, her unsubtle glares aimed Brady's way and, once, her reassuring hand on his shoulder. He can't quite place where the roaring hatred he automatically feels for that jerk-off comes from, except for the disturbingly obvious evidence of his initial misjudgment of everything about Sam: not only is Sam not some naive waif, he also has someone cast as the bad boy figure in his life already.

Brady also keeps hogging the champagne and refilling Sam's glass.

"Tell me, Dean, what's it like in the wedding business? Any shotgun affairs lately?" Brady smirks, and in doing so his eyes reflect the light in a way that—

He only catches it because the guy’s eyes are so obviously blue, otherwise he may have missed the darkness in them, the beetle-black flicker. It’s gone in a second, but Dean notices two things: one, Bela saw it too and she seems unfazed, and two...

 _Demon_. He’s a fucking demon.

He lurches to his feet, to the shocked stares of everyone around the table, and belatedly brings his phone up to his ear to fake a call.

“Bela, it’s for both of us. Cake emergency, c’mon.”

He grabs her arm and tugs, hermetic smile on for the audience before he and Bela are out of the room and of earshot.

“What the hell do you think—“

“I thought I wasn’t allowed to bring in back-up. Why the fuck are _you_?”

A tired sigh. “Honey, you don’t make the rules.” She makes as if to get away but Dean blocks her with his body, caging her into the corner they pretended to make out in before.

“Who the hell is that, Bela? And how do you know him?”

She huffs out a breath. “None of your damn business.”

“If he’s a threat to Sam I’m gonna make him my damn business.”

“If a _poodle_ was a threat to Sam you’d—“

Bela instantly winds her arms around his neck and tugs him down viciously.

“Oh for—" their faces are so close Dean goes cross-eyed. He doesn't close his eyes, though. "I’m starting to think you’re doing this on purpose.”

“You’re right, Dean, I arranged for someone to come after us a minute after we left because your idiotic macho posturing _really_ gets me going—“

For the second time, someone loudly clears their throat behind them. They break apart, Bela pretending to breathe heavily and Dean wiping a hand over his completely dry lips before he registers that ( _ding ding ding)_ the scene is an exact rerun, down to the third party's identity.

“Sam! How embarrassing... we’re so sorry, you’ve been such a good sport about this—“

“Dean, can I talk to you for a second?"

“Uh... now’s not so great, actually.”

“It’ll just be a second. Please.” Before Dean can look to Bela for an answer, Sam walks right up to him and engulfs his wrist in an enormous paw. “Thanks.” He barely acknowledges Bela’s presence at all and then proceeds to drag Dean towards the coat-check closet near the door of the house.

"Wh-what are you--"

They don’t fit among the jackets. Even hunching down to avoid bumping against the ceiling, the push of heavy fabrics draws them inexorably together, presses Dean’s chest into Sam’s pecs and their shoulders knock on either side of the wood paneling. The only light comes from the crack in the door, since they haven’t been able to close it fully due to the _not fitting situation._

“Dude, what the hell?” Dean splutters.

"You're him," Sam breathes, wide eyes and an eager flush on his face. His breath tastes like champagne. "Why won't you admit it? You're _him_."

Dean's heart is thumping crazily in his chest and for a moment he forgets it can't actually wedge his windpipe shut.

“You’re drunk.”

"And _you’re_ the boy from Truman High.”

Oh for the love of--

“I-I... what? That’s not... no, I’m not.”

“Yes you are. You _are_. I’m done fucking around, Dean. Brady’s right, I’ve been giving you too much time and way too much space--”

“Dude. You’re confusing me with someone--"

“Stop it. You _know_ me, we're... something's going on with you, with us. You’re a terrible liar.”

Actually Dean’s a damn good liar... when it comes to anyone else, apparently. Shit.

“I’ve been dreaming of you my whole life,” Sam blurts out.

“Uh, buddy... that’s a pretty backward way of callin’ me the man of your dreams. I mean, I’m flattered, but won’t your fake fiancée—“

“No, no, not the man of my dreams. The man _from_ my dreams. I’ve been dreaming about you for _years_. Your face, your voice, you... Dean, there’s a lot of stuff about me you don’t know but my dreams--sometimes my dreams come true.”

Dean gapes at him.

“I know it sounds crazy, but please, you have to believe me. And you have to...” His eyes are shining with tears. Christ, how much did he have? “Dean, you have to tell me you understand--please, I'm not crazy. I know I'm not. And I'm not making this up, you... you just have to tell me the truth. I can’t take this anymore. Please.”

And then, God, then Sam reaches out and grabs Dean’s face in his hands.

“You haven’t changed that much. I mean... you’ve changed, but I still remember... I was twelve, you were... what, sixteen? Truman High. You were watching my football game from the fence.”

“I--”

“The dreams started that same day, and they never stopped. I couldn’t forget your face, and I kept seeing you... alone in your car, mostly. Driving. Always. But sometimes saving people.”

_Alone in your car._

_Sometimes saving people._

Yeah, sounds like a pretty accurate summary of Dean’s life.

“We’re connected, right?” He still hasn’t said brothers. Without space for the word to breathe, the memory of a wet kiss on a hilltop is too near the surface. “Dean, I know you feel it too. I don’t know why you’d rather—pretend you want me than tell me the truth, but I thought if I went that route you’d admit it just to turn me down.”

“Sam...”

“Something’s brought us together.” Yes. Blackmail. Blackmail brought them together at the hands of a freaking _green-card holder_. “It’s like we’re... like we’re supposed to be together.”

When Sam’s chest expands it does so at the expense of Dean’s personal space.

“Don’t you...?” his voice has gone small and weak, plaintive. “Don’t you feel it too?”

Bitter bile coats the underside of Dean’s tongue. He knows what he wants to say and he also knows what he needs to say to keep Sam safe.

“Sam,” he says gently, shoving back every sequelae from his reaction to Sam’s proximity breach. “Take a deep breath.”

Amazingly (and for the first time since they’ve met, probably) Sam does as Dean tells him.

“Good. Okay, now you need to calm down. We’re in the coat closet, Sam.”

Sam nods, acknowledging this.

“Your in-laws are waiting for you in the living room, and so is your fiancée, Jessica. Your friend from college is there and so are his parents. That’s five people wondering where you’ve gone. You need to splash your face with some cold water and then you need to go back to them, okay?”

“But--”

“Sam.” Now comes the hard part. He has to do it. “Listen to me: we met four days ago, okay? I don’t know why you think we’re... more than strangers, but we are. Strangers. For now, at least.”

“No we’re--”

“Dude, listen to yourself. You’re saying you have... what, premonitions? Like you’re some sort of psychic? Sam. You’re wasted.”

Sam’s still shaking his head but he doesn’t try to speak again, and that’s how Dean knows he’s gaining ground.

“If you want, we can talk about it tomorrow, and you can yell at me until you’re blue in the face, but now’s not the time.”

A shaky, slightly snotty exhale is all he gets in response.

“Okay. C’mon. This will all make more sense in the morning.” God, he hopes. “All you gotta do now is take a couple extra deep breaths, okay? Man up.”

“That expression is stupid.”

Apparently Sam won’t go down without a fight. Dean’s not sure why he’s about to smile, given what’s just happened. “Fine. Sorry. _Clean_ up and go back out there. Okay?”

“Okay.”

He makes Sam go first and stays inside the stifling darkness a little longer. The coats smell like Dolce&Gabanna and guilt.


	8. Seven

“It's one in the morning, Dean Winchester." Missouri Moseley does not sound happy about the information she is relying.

"I'm really sorry, I wouldn't be calling if it wasn't important."

"This is about your brother."

He's used to her not-entirely-questions by now, so he just nods into the receiver and goes with it. "Do you know what's going on with us? What I... what I'm doing?"

"I haven't seen you in person for months, kiddo. All I know is what Bobby called to tell me. Some undercover job for a pair of stuck-up rich folk you were forced to take?"

Dean waits, chewing on his thumbnail distractedly. They both know Missouri sees things regardless of their incumbent's face-to-face time with her.

Finally, she adds: "But that's not all, is it?"

"No."

"Some sort of explosion happened near you recently, I think. Or it's about to, I can’t quite decide."

Dean thinks back to the first time he laid eyes on Sam in ten years. About the way his chest can’t seem to contain the expanding shock-wave of his reaction to Sam’s presence. About the insane notion that kissing him would shut him up.

Yeah. Explosion sounds about right.

"You met him? You met Sam?"

It isn't until she asks that Dean realizes he's been dying to tell someone. Someone who understands, without a trace of judgement. "Yeah," bursts out of him, and suddenly his eyes are stinging. "Met him for real, this time. Yeah."

"What's he like?"

"He's... not what I expected." Dean thinks about it for a moment. "A nerd." She chuckles on the other end of the line. "Real smart, though. Goes to law school at Stanford with a full ride. And he's... polite. Like, proper-table-manners, cleans-up-after-himself polite. Y'know. A good boy. You'd love him."

It feels good to talk to her. Despite Bobby's inherent good nature and Ellen's constant desire to help, Missouri is probably the closest thing to an authority figure Dean fully trusts. Maybe part of it is because she already knows half the things he's trying to say, and more often than not won't make him voice them aloud.

"He's kinda naturally quiet, I think, but I've gotten him talkin' for a bit. Arguing, mostly. Probably that was just my special talent shining through."

"You do know how to piss people off," she concedes.

"Yeah, yeah." Dean grins shakily at nothing. "He's so... he's amazing, 'Souri. I don't... I don't want him mixing with our kind. He doesn't deserve my bullshit in his life."

“The intersection has already happened, Dean. No point in cryin’ over spilled beans now.”

“I know. I know that.” And he does, deep down, but the part of him that wants to protect Sam at all costs keeps screaming 'DANGER, DANGER', and it's identified him as a threat too.

“He thinks you’re...?”

“His wedding planner.”

That startles a chuckle out of her. “Oh baby, I’d pay good money to see that.”

“I have fake glasses and everything,” Dean adds, because he knows she’ll get a kick out of it. “Bela’s got me reading all these bridal magazines... I had no idea so much went into planning this one day, man. And it’s work, too. Organizing a whole bunch of events, coordinating a ton of different services—uh. Anyway. An underestimated profession, if you ask me.”

“Hm. Now I know you didn’t call me at this time of night to talk about china patterns.”

Dean takes a deep breath. “No. I... just had a conversation with Sam that... was weird.”

“Weird is my specialty. Spill.”

“He recognizes me. From like, a two-second glance, ten years ago.” Her silence tells him to go on, and so he does. “He said he’s dreamt about me ever since. He said that he’s been seeing me in dreams this whole time. And I believe him, ‘Souri. Could he... I mean, could he be one of yours?”

“Oh, Dean.” She heaves a long, drawn out sigh. “That’s not it.”

“But when I talk to him... it’s like he always knows when I’m lying. And he makes me feel...” he trails off because he can hear himself starting to sound like a lovesick idiot and he’s not sure how to make it... not sound like that.

“Dean. Your brother’s not a psychic. But if there’s something going on with him beyond a teenage crush and a good memory, I guess I could turn my focus his way for a bit.”

Crush. Yikes, that's not it.

“Thanks. Okay.”

“Call me again if something happens. Just... at a reasonable time.”

"Right. Will do."

He hangs up and lies down on the comfortable bed, trying not to analyze the way the tightness in his chest seems to have eased despite Missouri's lack of an actual answer.

*

Dean is running a few minutes late to the rendezvous Bela wants to have in the garage, and she's already texted him twice to hurry the fuck up. When she knocks on his actual bedroom door like an impatient stalker Dean has had freaking _enough_ —

“—with the third degree, Bel...a.”

It’s Sam.

“Hi.”

He looks terrible; Dean’s almost personally offended by the fact that his brother is such a lightweight.

“Hey. You’re not Bela.”

Sam grimaces. “Sorry to disappoint.”

Dean shrugs and goes back into the room, leaving it up to Sam whether he follows or not. “What’s up, Sam?”

“I’m just... I wanted to talk to you alone, first. To apologize.”

Much as he wants to, Dean forces himself not to turn around. “Hm?”

“I never meant to corner you, or make you feel like I was... uh, yeah, I acted like an ass. And I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I... pushed you into a closet.”

“That part’s true,” Dean acknowledges, cocking his head. He wonders at which point his fumbling with the stack of wedding print-outs becomes overdoing the avoidance thing. The dresses are nice to look at, though. And the models aren’t exactly hard on the eyes.

“And I... kind of... I mean, I could see how it might seem like I was... totally nuts. Or propositioning you. Again.” He adds the last bit too fast for Dean to look up in time and figure out his expression. “But I was really drunk, and I know I probably wasn’t making much sense—“

“Well, you did say you had psychic visions about me and that we should be together, so I’m not sure what gave you the idea that you sounded less than sober. Or that I might think you want in these pants.”

“Yeah...” Sam rubs the back of his neck with a small wince, pale lips pressed together. Someone oughtta give him a neck massage and a decent kiss; someone appropriate, who Sam loves—hell, who Sam _likes_. “Well, that’s been going on for a long time. I didn’t mean for it to come out like that, but...” he shrugs. “Ever since I saw you as a kid, in that field, I’ve been seeing weird snapshots of your life.”

Dean stares.

“Just random shit, y’know? And I’d wake up with this feeling... like I was meant to be a part of—like we were both living half-lives. Like my shit wasn’t going to feel real until we were together, and you were just... waiting for me. So we could... start.”

He sounds frustrated with his own inability to convey some hard-to-find feeling, but Dean gets it. Because he’s been the same, for as long as he can remember. His whole world was dulled until Sam came back in it.

“I know I’m not crazy. And I don’t know why you’re being such a dick about all this, but if you could just tell me what you know...”

Dean doesn’t have an answer for him that won’t get both of them in trouble. As time passes and he remains silent, Sam seems to give up on waiting.

“Anyway. I’m sorry about last night.” He starts to turn away like he’s given up on Dean accepting his apology.

“We’re cool, Sam.”

That makes him pause at the door.

“Really? So you're going to tell me the truth?”

It's Dean's turn to wince.

"...No."

Sam nods.

"I'mma take that as a 'not yet'."

"Sam, I can't--"

" _Yet_ ," Sam snaps, and shuts the door behind him.

*

Dean bursts into the garage building with gusto, having had the whole walk to redirect his anger and frustration about Sam into the realization that, oh yeah, Bela is friendly with the local _demon_.

“Who is he?”

He stops right in front of her and pants for breath, all charged up with nowhere to go.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

"Who was that demon pawing all over my brother, Bela."

"You sound like a jealous boyfriend."

"You sound like you're about to get punched unless you tell me--"

"Oh calm down, Deano." She shoves at him to create a little distance, face scrunched like he stinks or something. "Brady loves Sam.”

“I don’t care, he better keep his fucking hands to himself.”

“Dear lord—“

“Don’t. I get that you need to do some sucking up to the local demons, but using the body of Sam’s friend to do it is fucked up. Either get him to choose a different vessel or—“

“Or?”

“Well, I hear trying to weasel your way out of a contract doesn’t usually work out for the person who’s about to become puppy-chow.”

She goes very still.

"What did you say?"

Dean smirks, viciously glad to have the upper hand for once. "I get that trying to get into a demon’s good graces is probably smart days before your expiration date, but I don’t think that’ll do you much good, to be honest."

"How..." her composure is hastily reapplied, but Dean's not fooled. "You've been blabbing off to your hunter friends."

"I don't have any friends," he snaps. "It wasn't all that hard to figure you out, actually."

Her jaw ticks. "And you think now that you know, that changes things."

"Yeah. It changes everything." A step forward and this time she forgets not to flinch slightly when he draws near. "Because now I know why you came to me. You need me. You know this is what I do, and you wanted insurance to make sure I took the job. Still don’t get how you found out about Sam, but whatever, he’s the best insurance you could find. Convoluted, I’ll grant you, but effective."

Bela stares at him. “You think I need you to save me?”

“Well, yeah.”

She bursts out laughing.

Okay.

Not the reaction he was expecting.

"Oh honey..." she chuckles, hands trembling with hysteria."Oh, your ego really knows no bounds, does it?" Her eyes are glassy with unshed tears, and okay seriously, what's so fucking funny?

"What."

"You're not even a real hunter, Dean." The humor cuts off abruptly. "You've been waffling with one foot on the human world and the other in the supernatural your whole life. You think, out of everyone out there, I'd turn to _you_ for help against a Hellhound? Dean Winchester--I'm sorry, _Smith_ ," she spits out, and her face twists into a rictus of flushed-red fury. "You think you're better than me, you call yourself the ‘fixer’? All you are is a scavenger. A lowlife vagrant who fills the void of affection in his life with other people’s troubles. You live on the outskirts of society just as much as I do, and the fact that I do it to take care of myself and you do it because you care so little for _your_ self that you fill the void with other people doesn’t make you better than me. Self-loathing is very last year, darling.”"

"Then why the _fuck_ am I here?"

"Because _Sam_ is the one I need."

Dean goes cold.

“Sam?”

“Your darling little brother, yes. The confused boy with the demonic taste in friends? He isn’t feeling too happy with you right now but that’ll change once you admit to him what you really are to each other, I’m sure.”

“Why do you... how could _Sam_ help you get out of a demon deal?”

She looks so pleased to have reclaimed the reins of the conversation that she actually gives him an answer.

“Baby brother has a lot more darkness in him than you know, Dean. Brady doesn’t just hang around anybody.”

“You telling me... Sam is... Sam has some sort of influence over demons?”

It can’t be true. That can’t be it, whatever the Yellow-Eyed demon did to Sam as a baby, it can’t be something so... evil. Sam is so...

_Innocent? Naive? Pure?_

No, maybe not so much. But still... there’s manipulative and then there’s _demons_.

It can’t be true.

“Influence...” she appears to ponder the word. “Yes, that’s one way of putting it I suppose.”

“And I’m here because...”

“Well, I wasn’t counting on you antagonizing him quite so successfully, I’ll admit... in my mind, he was less persistent about your bond, and grew to like you enough that I could use you against him.” Dean winces. “Oh well. Guess we’ll just have to tell him the truth instead. Should’ve factored your charming personality into the equation.”

“ _Fuck_ you,” he spits out.

“Dean.” She brings a hand up to her throat like the language shocked her, like they have an audience. “Did I hit a nerve? Are you _that_ torn up over what Sammy thinks of you?”

Dean is done here.

Before he can make as if to leave, however, she reaches out and digs sharp fingernails into his forearm.

“This is me giving you permission to tell him the truth, now.”

Now. Now, after he’s fucked everything up and given Sam every reason to hate him, distrust him, _kiss_ him... now he’s got to admit he knew they were brothers all along.

“I’m not telling him shit. I’m done.” He sounds more tired and less threatening than he’d intended. Tough.

Her fingers dig in deeper. He’ll need a tetanus shot after this.

“I could tell him myself, I suppose... but I’ll tell you something else. When you went in my room you must not have done a very thorough search.” At Dean’s expression she snorts. “Come on, that’s the only way you could have found out about my deal. So I imagine you must have stayed near the doorway and backtracked as soon as someone else told you what Goofer dust is... the Harvelle girl, am I right? Anyway, behind my mirror is an board. And I use it to speak to the dead.”

Dean stares.

“You know who has more information than any living creature on this planet, Dean? Better than contacts, better than police records, more reliable than Google. The dead know everything. If you know which of them to ask.” She smirks. “Know what else I learned from them, amongst all those tasty little details about your life story? I learned the reason why Sam is the demon’s MVP."

"You what?"

“Your darling little Sammy has demon blood.”

She lets his arm go.

Dean couldn’t have moved anyway.

“Baby brother got some extra seasoning from Azazel himself. Drank it as a child, I understand? Powerful black magic, that. He grew up with it, so chances are it’s manifested in unnatural ways. I’m surprised it hasn’t gotten him attention from your precious hunters' side of things.”

When he doesn’t say anything, she chuckles.

“What? You’re not even going to try and pretend to think I’m lying? I know it’s because you’ve thought about it. In the darkest corners of your mind, maybe. But just think... two days to go and this will all be over. Play by my rules or I spill the beans, and his life is forfeit to the demonic brethren.”

*

“What took Gordon so long?” Miranda muses, knowing full well it was Dean’s fault the coffees were delayed. He spilled them on his way from the kitchen. Twice. “My cappuccino barely has any foam left...” she observes, holding the cup up for inspection.

“I can take it back,” Dean grinds out through clenched teeth, tray held dangerously still in his palm.

“ _Mom_ ,” Jess hisses.

“It’s all right, Dean, just get us the seating chart for the engagement dinner please.”

Dean stomps out of the room and thus concludes another interaction without exchanging a single look with his brother.

It’s only been two hours since Bela’s order but he feels every passing minute. The demon possessing Sam’s college friend left last night, along with the poor boy’s deluded parents, but the aftertaste of danger he’s left behind can’t be ignored. And Sam has a curse hanging over his head.

“Dean.”

Jo’s standing in the middle of the foyer, with a silver platter under her armpit.

“What.”

She raises her eyebrows. “You okay?”

He considers lying. “No.”

“What happened?”

“Long story. I’ll tell you later.” He makes as if to leave but she moves in his way.

“Wait, I have a message for you from Tamara. She wanted you to know that she’ll need you to help out on serving duty Saturday, for the engagement party—“

“Fine. Whatever, look, I gotta—“

“ _Wait_.” Unknowingly, she grabs him by the same place Bela did. “What’s going on with you?” Quieter. “What are we gonna do about Bela Talbot’s due date, Dean?”

“I don’t know,” he grunts. The words ring and resonate. “I don’t fucking know, Jo, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing and I don’t...”

The look on her face, which switched from sympathetic to blank as her eyes drifted over his shoulder, shuts him up. He already knows who’ll be standing behind him when he turns around.

“Sorry to interrupt, guys.” Jess shoots them a guarded look and winds her fingers with Sam’s.

Jo lets go of Dean’s arm almost simultaneously, and Sam’s eyes follow the movement.

“We’re taking Bones out for a walk. We’ll be back by dinner.”

Dean nods.

Jess keeps looking at him. Finally Sam starts to turn away, but her eyes flicker between him and Dean once more before she adds. “Wanna come with us? Get some fresh air?”

Sam’s whole frame goes stock-still. Dean doesn’t know what the right thing to do is anymore, but before he has to bring himself to come to some sort of a decision Jess has leaned forward and tugged him by his hand, practically dragging both him and Sam outside of the house and then muttering something about going back in to get Sam’s dog. She leaves them alone.

Sam won’t look at him. He just looks out towards the slowly darkening sky and irradiates disappointment.

They walk in silence for a couple of minutes until Dean can’t take all of it and this too.

“So that Brady kid... seemed like a character,” he tries.

“Yeah, he’s... a bit off the rails, to be honest. Used to... not be like that, but. I don’t know what happened.” Sam shrugs.

“You still seemed happy to hang out with him.”

“You jealous?”

“I... _what_.” Dean gapes at him.

“Well. Are you?”

“ _No_!”

Sam nods. “Okay.” He just sounds tired and fed up. Dean feels all twisty inside that he’s to blame for that but Sam needs to protected, he needs to be—

“This isn’t about me needing to be kept from danger or some shit, is it?” Sam comes out with suddenly. “Because you’ve asked me to trust you more than once and I have no reason to trust a word you say, I hope you understand that. I’m a big boy, I can take care of myself. Or I can decide if I’d like someone else to take care of me.”

His voice gains some heat as he continues.

“Because that’s the only thing I’m left with. You seem like kind of an asshole and you certainly go outta your way to make sure you’re perceived as one but I can’t come up with another explanation. You’ve got a... a _righteousness_ about you.” It sounds like an insult. “And if that is the case, then I’d like for you to shove it up your ass. ‘Cause life has never exactly wrapped me in a feather blanket and I like to think I came out pretty okay, so I don’t do well with ill-conceived attempts at sugar-coating shit.”

From the figurative corner he’s been backed into, Dean can only stare. Sam stares right back, having stopped walking and lifted an accusing fist in his direction. They are standing a lot closer than he’d first anticipated, or maybe their gravity centers have always been out of whack.

A crazy thought flits by, that in the movie, this is the moment where you're convinced Elisabeth and Mr. Darcy are totally about to make out.

Dean can't be thinking that.

Sam... can't be thinking that either.

...Right?

The angle they’re at means Dean catches the flare of Sam's nostrils as he pants out a breath, giant frame shuddering like a racehorse kept from leaping forward. His gaze droops down to Dean’s mouth seemingly by accident, except it stays there, and then--

Sam blinks and moves back. He starts walking again, and Dean catches up to him after a second.

“What’s up with you and Bela? I’ve never had visions about you and her. You met her recently, right?”

The fading light of dusk is convenient to pretend to squint into the distance. “You could say that. She’s... not so much my employer as she is my jailor.”

“Your what?”

“She’s got something on me, Sam. You don’t need to know the details. Just... she has ways. And she knows my pressure points and she’s using it—them against me. She’s in a tight spot and she thinks she can get to the answer by using me.”

It seems pretty obvious that Sam wasn’t expecting that explanation.

“What kind of tight spot?”

“That’s classified.”

“Why is your presence here supposed to—oh.” Well, he did go to Law School with a full scholarship. Kid is smart. “Is this about me somehow? Or Jess?”

“Jess isn’t part of the equation. She’s the means to the end, like me.”

“How am I supposed to get Talbot out of a fix? Nothing in my visions ever—“

”I don’t think it’s about the visions.”

But whatever power Sam has, and however it relates to demons, the visions are certainly part of it.

_Demon blood._

_Chances are it’s manifested in unnatural ways..._

_\--not the man of my dreams, the man_ from _my dreams..._

“Is there anything else you can tell me about yourself. Anything... unusual?”

Sam considers it very seriously for a long moment. The flashes of darkness in his eyes have nothing of inky blackness, and much more of a kind of weary sadness that makes Dean feel cold and hollow in the California summer air.

“Nothing I can pinpoint in so many words,” Sam says finally. “There are things... small things.”

Without realizing it, they’ve walked the path that leads to the gazebo. It lights up at night, a glow amidst the vines and flowers, and for a moment the stupid beauty of it all paralyzes Dean, makes him feel more than ever like he’s a creature apart from this world, something a hunter should be after.

But then Sam says, with this ironic smile like they are both in on the cheesy joke: “Wanna sit?”

So they sit on the bench inside.

It’s a waste of electricity but it’s also hard to resent the lights faintly sharpening Sam’s cheekbones and jaw, illuminating his eyes and stupidly silky hair. He’s everything Dean’s ever cared about, really.

“Devil is in the details,” Dean grunts.

“Yeah. I... So, not all my dreams are... uh, real. I don’t think.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve dreamt of you breaking into a house, or taking care of your car, or getting beat up, or beating somebody else up, or talking to someone in a bar, or... I’m pretty sure hustling a bunch of guys at pool.”

Dean smirks. “Sounds like me.”

“Yeah. But then... then there’s other stuff. Other dreams. Ones you’re not in.” The stiffness in Sam’s shoulders suggests a repressed shudder. “It’s... crazy stuff.”

“I need to know everything. No matter how crazy it sounds, Sam, tell me.”

Sam nods. “You mean like you told me everything from the start? Like you’re telling me everything now?”

Dean draws a breath to protest but gets overruled.

“Whatever, look, I’m not an asshole like you. I’ll tell you what you need to know but I just need you to answer one question.”

“What is it?”

“Are monsters real?”

Dean hangs his head in defeat. He can’t very well deny this anymore. He has to give Sam _something_.

“Yes.”

“Am I... am I one?”

Horror grips Dean’s throat like a fist. “ _NO_!” he explodes. “No, Sam, no, of course not.”

The breath Sam lets out is nothing but pure, un-distilled relief. He doesn’t ask any follow-up questions, doesn’t do more than take a few moments to compose his thoughts and kind of nod shakily to himself before continuing his explanation like nothing happened.

“So, my other dreams. The ones that aren’t about you. There’s a woman in them, a demon, I think, and her eyes are white. Like, they rolled into the back of her head, white. And she says... she says I have great things ahead of me. But I’m going to have to... embrace... the darkness inside.”

He sneaks a look at Dean after saying that.

“Yeah. And she gets angrier the longer I don’t. Used to be she’d just monologue about the havoc I’ll wreak one day, but as I grew older she started threatening the people I—that she knew mattered to me.”

Well, it’s not the whole picture but... shit, Sam’s definitely on a powerful demons’ radar.

“Okay. We’ll figure it out, I promise. This demon chick won’t hurt you, okay?”

Sam nods.

“I... thanks for telling me, man. I know I’ve been a dick. But I really am just trying to help.”

“Whatever. My messed-up subconscious will help you get Bela off your back?”

“Maybe. Yeah.”

“Okay.”

Dean stands up again, ready for a night of sneaking Jo into his room to research the shit out of demons. And then Sam says.

“There’s something else.”

For some reason, something tells Dean not to turn around. With his back to Sam, he says: “What?” And waits.

And then Sam says: “The woman, she calls me by another name.”

A pause.

“She calls me Winchester.”


	9. Eight

“The only way to cancel a crossroads deal is to kill the contract-holder, Dean. And that can only be done with a demon-killing knife, or an ancient dagger of the Kurds, which most hunters believe to be legend anyway. How does she expect to get out of this alive?”

“I don’t know.”

He really wishes he could stop answering questions with that lame three-word combo.

“Man, Mrs Moore sure has a lot of white shirts with shoulderpads.”

Talking while they fold laundry is a surprsingly perfect cover for demon-killing topics. The background rumble of the washing machines really does help, and anyone coming into the room will be in their direct line of sight.

“Oh God, are those Sam’s boxers?”

“How the fuck should I know?”

From the look on her face, he can tell exactly how she expected him to know.

“Aw fuck, Jo, I told you it wasn’t like that.”

She holds up her hands (white bra in one hand, sock in the other). “Hey, I was just asking.” At his glare, she adds. “He seemed... into the idea.”

“He was trying to get me to yell chicken. Trust me, it wasn’t real.”

“You sure?”

He snorts. “I’m sure.”

She doesn’t look convinced. “He’s got the Hollywood looks, I’ll give him that, but no one’s that good an actor.”

Dean can feel himself blushing. It’s fucking awful.

*

From Stella, Dean learns that none of the guests for the engagement party are from Sam’s side. None of the couple’s college friends are around for the break except Brady (and he’s technically a friend to both Sam and Jess), and given the hoity-toity society people and a few millionaires and CEO’s who _are_ attending, Dean finally understands that it was never really about the unhappy couple.

There was a rumor amongst the staff that LeBron James might be showing up for a while, but it gets debunked soon enough by Tamara.

Jess appears more outwardly nervous and stressed as the day draws closer, even though an actual wedding is still a far away event. She hasn’t spoken to Dean directly about Sam or anything else, but from what he overheard that one time she’s well aware of his being in the know about their real relationship. And she knows about Sam having nightmares too, come to think of it. Probably nothing specific though, not like Dean does. Sam probably didn’t confide in her like he did with Dean last night.

_She calls me Winchester._

“ _He said that_?”

“A demon with white eyes, Bobby. What do we know of a demon with white eyes?”

“ _Right now... nothin’ I can think of. I’ll look into it and get back to ya_.”

Bobby sounds uneasy, which rattles Dean in turn. “She must be a pal of Azazel’s though, right?”

“ _Right. But if she’s been projecting herself into Sam’s head_...” there’s a loaded pause. Dean hopes Bobby isn’t about to insinuate—“ _You been watchin’ yourself around the boy, right Dean?_ ”

A flash of violent fury gets him to his feet, but he counts to five before saying something he’ll regret. “Sam’s not dangerous,” he manages to grit out.

“ _Okay. Okay, just... keep your guard up_.”

“Sure. Gotta go, Bobby.” He hangs up.

A knock on the door startles him out of the red fog of rage, and stops him from doing any real damage to the bedside lamp.

“Dean.”

It’s Bela, and behind her trails Jessica. “Dean. Good, you’re here. I’d like Jess to spend some time with you before the party tomorrow, I know it’s a little early to look at gowns but she’s got to start sometime.”

The door slams shut and Jessica startles a little.

“Hey,” Dean says with a nod. He’s not too much of a coward to admit that Jessica intimidates him. Something about her confidence, or her obvious ease in her own skin.

“Okay. Let’s get to it.”

She plops the stack of magazines on Dean’s mattress (so it joins another two stacks) and points to the top issue. “This is the only dress I like.”

A gorgeous woman with long flowing blonde hair models a simple white number with a plunging V neckline and an elegant cut. She’s looking up towards the corner of the page, her wide mouth slightly open, her irises so intent on some distraction up high as to almost not be visible.

“Now that we’ve established that, I know Sam told you about us.”

Dean was afraid this might happen.

“Uh, well, yeah, he—“

“Listen, I may not know what’s going on between you two but Sam is my best friend. I love him, and I know him better than anyone, and I lived with him up until last week. And every other night Sam wakes up gasping from a dream that may or may not have actually happened. He doesn’t talk to me about it because he doesn’t talk to anyone about it, but sometimes I get the feeling he lives more in dreams than in real life. And then you... you come along and _dissapoint_ him.”

The word does exactly what it’s supposed to, which is cut straight to the core.

“This dress?” Jess splays a hand on the glossy cover. “I’d want to wear if if I was with someone who saw me. Sam loves me, but there will always be something else—someone else on his mind, when he thinks about love. I can’t be second-best to anyone, Dean. I decided that from the start, the moment I met him.” She squints at him. “And for some reason, you’re first in line.”

“I’m—“

“I’m not done. You’re first in line, and you’d better not dissapoint him again.”

Dean waits for her to continue. When she doesn’t, he mutters: “M’sorry, am I allowed to speak now?”

Jessica’s shoulders slump. "You're a real fucking catch, aren't you."

“Sam deserves better,” Dean agrees.

“Of course. Of course he does, but here’s the thing,” she’s suddenly animated again. “The thing is, Mr Smith, that he doesn’t want better. He wants _you_. So you’d better get your shit together, okay? Be the best you can be, for him.”

Dean scoffs. “Be the best I can—“

“For him,” Jess repeats firmly. “You get your ass into gear and reinvent yourself until you deserve a minute of his time, okay?”

Dean feels the crushing truth of her words like a weight on his chest.

“Sam’s special,” she says. She searches his face for understanding. “You get that, right?”

God help him, Dean does.

*

This is California, so it’s not supposed to rain. And yet, the window of Dean’s room rattles with a steady batter of droplets. Shitty weather for an engagement party that was supposed to spill outside into the gardens.

And it’s only an hour away, so there’s no hope of a timely reprieve.

“You should wear the monkey-suit more often.”

Dean’s not so out of his game that he hadn’t heard Sam come in, but the rumble of his brother’s voice unsteadied him from day one regardless of prep-time.

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

Sam snorts. Dean looks away from his reflection in the mirror and has to swallow a couple of times just to try and get the feeling back in his extremities. Holy fuck does Sam clean up nice. His hair is lightly gelled, or just wet from after a shower, he can’t tell (not from this distance but maybe if he sank his hands in it and tugged he could--), his broad shoulders are accentuated by the cut of the suit and he looks like he should be on magazines. Makes Dean feel almost self-conscious about his own looks. He should take off the fake glasses.

Encountering a person whose opinion he gives a shit about has been really cramping his style.

“So Jess mentioned... a conversation.”

“You’re an unlucky guy. Whoever gets that girl to agree to marry him for real was probably Ghandi in another life.”

Sam nods. “I know. Better than you, ‘cause she’s my best friend.”

“Ah.”

She was right, though. About everything. Rather than feel like dirt, Dean feels almost good, almost validated in his self-loathing.

“So... why don’t you start talking once and for all?” Sam says.

“Last night was—“

“Last night I was the one doing the talking,” he interrupts impatiently. “You as good as told me everything else, Dean, why the hell aren’t we talking about the—the elephant in the room? I can’t believe you’re doing this just because Bela told you not to tell me. Are you that much of a chickenshit?”

He’s not... he’s not fucking scared of the truth. He was just protecting—except Sam’s got a point. At this stage, there’s practically a neon sign that spells ‘Winchester’ flashing over their heads. He told Sam about the monsters, about Bela, everything but...

“This thing between us...” Sam prompts, winces a little at how it sounds.

Dean stares at him, wondering when they started walking to stand right in front of each other. One of them should move back so that it’s less weird.

Neither of them does, though.

“Look, I’m sorry about the shit I’ve put you through, okay?” he starts. “I swear, I wouldn’t have done it if I had another choice. It really was for your own—“

“Don’t say it,” Sam interrupts, hoarse and pissed the hell off. “God. Screw you, Dean.”

Dean flinches.

“For my own good? Who the hell are you to me that you get to make that call, huh?”

It’s there, the best opening he’s going to get, and Sam is double-daring him to spit it out, finally, arms wide in challenge and fury reddening his cheeks. Dean stares at him for a moment. He stares and he _wants_.

“I’m your brother,” he chokes.

Sam’s shoulders slump like his strings have been cut.

He looks absolutely stricken and a million miles away. For a moment Dean thinks he’s going to cry, just out of sheer catharsis or horror or at the memory of that time Dean put his mouth on him instead of admitting the truth.

He doesn’t cry, though. He just starts to slowly nod, and then clenches his jaw very tight for a few moments.

“Okay,” he breathes. “Okay. That’s... that’s all I wanted to hear.”

Dean bites his lower lip.

“There’s no way that’s all you wanted.”

Sam looks up at him and there’s one full second during which he looks petrified, as if Dean’s found out some awful truth about him, but then the fear fades into understanding. “I suspected... the whole time, I suspected it. No. I knew.” He blows out a breath. “I knew but I needed to hear you say it.”

“... And now?”

“Now?” Sam runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t know, man. I guess we figure out how to save Bela from the demons, right?”

Dean stares at him.

Bela has used them both, orchestrated the masterful manipulation of everyone around them to line up her chess peices the way she wants in the location of her choice. She’s threatened to _kill_ Sam.

“I mean, obviously we’re not gonna leave her to die.”

Fuck. Dean is so fucking gone for this kid.

“Obviously.”

Sam nods.

Suddenly Dean needs to get it all out.

“Sam... listen, about... what happened a couple of days ago...”

Sadly, Sam just waits expectantly for him to finish the sentence and doesn’t help him out at all.

“Yes?

“Well... I just wanted to say I’m sorry. I get that I’ve been a dick. And you can be mad at me—you should be mad at me. That’s fair.”

“Oh I know that.” Sam sounds very very aware of it. “I’m furious.”

“I... you are?”

“Of course. I’m so angry I could kill you.” Dean winces. “You lied to me. But it’s worse than that, Dean.”

He starts stalking towards Dean again, in a way that screams towards their height difference, for the first time making Dean truly nervous. Not because he’s afraid Sam might physically hurt him but because his reaction to the possibility of a physical altercation remains, to this moment, anticipation.

“I thought I was never going to be able to love anybody because I was already in love with the lonely boy of my dreams— _from_ my dreams. Shit” He laughs quietly to himself at the slip-up. “You fucking ruined me, Dean. You ruined me for Jess, you ruined me for everybody else. And you weren’t even in my life while you were doing it.”

The raw hatred in that voice cuts Dean to the core. And he deserves it. Oh, he deserves that and more.

But then he hears the message hidden amongst the cruel words.

“What... what are you saying?”

“I’m...” for a moment Sam looks lost. “I’m saying I saw you sleeping in that car in the cold and I saw you dressed as a Santa’s elf for some weird fucking reason and I saw you handing a little girl to her crying parents and all the while I felt this _tug_ —“ he hits himself right below the ribs. “This pull towards you like we were the same, like our blood was the same, and part of me knew the whole time, about our name, about our relation to each other. But then I saw you and you just...”

Dean reaches out trembling hands instinctively, wanting to soothe, wanting to gentle Sam’s pain.

“You just... you were so...”

“Sam, I’m sorry I kissed you.”

Sam’s eyes are shining. He takes a huge breath and then says, breathy and small: “That’s the problem, Dean. _I’m not_.”

And then he leans in and kisses Dean again.

Warm, wet lips tease his mouth open immediately and the sound Dean makes is far from human; a high, strained thing he’d never heard himself produce before.

“God...” Sam gasps, when Dean kisses down to his neck so he can mold their bodies tighter together, rock into Sam’s hips and flutter his tongue against the joint of Sam’s jaw. “Dean.”

Sam’s head lolls to the side to ease access, his huge hands pawing at Dean’s back and then his ass, drawing him closer, as if that were possible.

They start to lose balance when a particular grind causes Dean to buck and hiss, the friction catching his cock against his fly and the cut of Sam’s hipbone. Sam catches him by the waist so he bears the brunt of Dean’s weight when they slam into the dresser with a loud rattle and a crash.

Goodbye lamp.

“Oops,” Dean mutters, a little breathy with how turned on he is right now.

Sam grins down at him, feral and proud. “You thought that was bad, wait until you see what I plan to do to the bed.”

Dean groans.

Sam hitches him up onto the largely unused surface, causing a single tub of cheap deodorant to roll to the floor. Dean uses both hands to grab Sam by the hair on the back of his neck and yank his head back, baring his throat.

"Fuck," he pants into Sam's Adam’s apple, hand sneaking down the front of Sam’s tux, fingers flirting with the line of his pants. "Fuck, you feel big..."

Sam coughs out an answering groan.

“Can I fuck you?”

Dean goes still.

Sam does too. He pulls back so he’s looking at Dean and the thing is—the problem with the way Sam is looking at him is that he tears through Dean's walls every time their eyes meet, he’s been doing it all the time, and it is _exhausting_ , building them back up, and Dean is so tired of this endless fight against himself, against what he wants, against Sam—

“Yeah. Fuck, yeah.”

They draw apart to shed clothes they only recently put on, and the minimal care the respective garments are given is a small price to pay for the urgency of it all.

“You got any...?”

“Condoms?”

“Lube. Either or.”

Dean goes over to his versatile duffel and rummages around until he’s got both, tossing the condom at Sam and coating his fingers as he tugs his boxer-briefs down. He’s not a self-conscious guy, but there’s something one might call nerves making his hands shake a little as he settles himself on his back.

 _Be better_ , was the gist of Jess' pep talk. Right now, he's literally stripped to the core.

Sam knees onto the bed to arch over him, powerful thighs at either side of Dean’s legs. It limits Dean’s manouvreability but it’s also hot as hell, so he’s not going to be the one to ask Sam to move for practicality’s sake.

“Can I do it?” Sam asks.

Dean withdraws the one finger he’d been using to start opening himself up and gestures grandly. “By all means.”

Sam chuckles. “You’re such a shit.”

“You love it.”

Sam’s finger is thicker than Dean’s, and it feels so fucking good Dean hears himself make another new sound; high and thin like he’s been rendered useless.

When he’d first seen Sam, he’d thought the kid looked like he fit into a category; the type of guy Dean picked up. Someone to become quickly in awe of Dean’s versatility, his experience, his confidence.

He couldn’t have been more wrong.

“It doesn’t bother you? That we’re... you know.”

Dean stares up at him. “What a time to bring that up, man.” But Sam’s voice was quietly questioning and it actually looks like he might need reassurance, nothing more. So Dean shrugs and tells the truth. “I thought it should. But no. It doesn’t. Does it... does it bother _you_?”

Sam looks up from what he’s doing and smiles.

“No.”

And then he sinks two fingers into Dean’s ass, easy as pie.

Dean moans and scrabbles behind him for a pillow to muffle his voice into, but Sam bats his arm away imperiously. “You got some appreciation to show, show it please,” he says simply.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Dean bites out, and it only gets worse from there as Sam goes for two, then three, then, with eyes wide as saucers, makes a questioning noise that might hint at four before Dean puts a stop to it.

“I thought you wanted to fuck me.”

“Okay, but I think I’m going to need to test that theory some other time. Uh...” he blinks a drop of sweat out of his eye and aims his words at the bedframe. “If, that is, unless—“

“Sounds good to me,” Dean grunts, suddenly fascinated by the ceiling.

“Oh. Okay. Good.”

Sam draws his fingers away and wraps them around his cock, coating the condom in more slick. Dean sits up a little to see and can’t help a weird warm pride from settling in his chest.

Sam’s cock is huge, thick and pretty and from the looks of it, as painfully hard as Dean’s feels. He’d better check for himself.

“Unh—“ Sam grunts when Dean ads his grip to the lube-job.

“Make sure that’s on there...” Dean mutters, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth when Sam’s hips helplessly jut towards the movements.

“Oh fu—uh, stop, Dean, shit Jesus—“

“Just makin’ sure you’re prepped to fuck me right, Sammy...”

“Not—gonna last long enough if you don’t stop—“ Sam pants, weakly batting at Dean’s arm. Then he sneaks his own hand down to wrap around Dean’s cock and a near-fistfight ensues as they mock-wrestle to make the other lose it first, until Dean thinks that if they don’t get the show on the road he’s going to come for real, giggling like a schoolgirl and splattering both their hands.

He catches Sam’s next attempt at a handjob by the wrist and tugs him lower, spreads his legs impatiently.

“I’m waiting, kiddo.”

Sam goes very still, breath gushing out of his mouth fast. “I... yeah. Shit. Yeah.”

He doesn’t make Dean wait a second longer.

*

“Hey, can I ask you something?”

“No, I probably won’t be able to sit down tomorrow, why?”

Sam smirks. “Not that.”

“Shoot. Again.”

“You think you’re hilarious, don’t you? Anyway, I genuinely want to know about the elf costume. How did that happen?”

Dean fishes his bowtie out from under the bed. “I was undercover.”

He knows his right sock has to be in the damn room, for fuck’s sake...

“...That’s it? You were undercover, that’s all I get?”

“Sam, shouldn’t you start heading downstairs, man? People will wonder where you are.”

“Oh. I-I know that. I just thought...”

Dean looks up at him.

“We’ll... if you wanna talk about it, we can do that tomorrow, okay? Tonight you and Jess have your fake party that you need to get through.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

“I’ll see you in like, two minutes.”

Sam nods. Then he quickly strides over to him and crouches down to peck Dean on the lips before leaving the room.

Whatever remained of Dean’s overcompensating machismo implodes in on itself right then. The good thing is that his vindicated self-loathing fades a little with it, too.

Maybe Jess was a little wrong. Maybe he can be good for Sam just by being himself.

*

“Are these gluten-free?” the man asks with suspicion.

Dean eyes the canapes on his platter. He has no fucking idea.

“Why, are you allergic?”

“No, I just choose not to eat gluten.”

Dean’s (likely innapropriate) retort dies in his throat when a voice whispers hotly in his ear. “Meet me in the coat closet later.”

By the time Dean’s turned around, another one of Jess’ relatives has snagged the couple in conversation, and Sam’s bicep is getting a handsy groping.

They share a look over Sam’s shoulder that’s almost complicit.

Despite the rain, the party seems to be going well. The turnout certainly exceeded expectations (although, alas, no Lebron James) and the limited space forces a cosy feel to the large living room, which it lacks when it’s not full of people. The windows fogged up after a while and the heat is made muggier by the collective body-heat, but that doesn’t dim the shine of the array of pearl earrings and diamond cufflinks.

Dean has been hit on by nine women and offered sex for money by another two, and some dude promised him shares in some Silicon Valley startup for a blowjob.

It’s nothing he isn’t used to. He’s doing all right, working the room to try to identify any extra allies Bela may have brought in to add to her little demon welcome-squad.

The center of attention tonight is, undeniably, Sam.

In a shocking turn of events, Jess’ parents seem to have taken it upon themselves to make the best out of a bad situation and introduce him around instead of snubbing him. It seems to help that Jess doesn’t leave his side, most of the time seeming to act as quiet support, since she seems to know everyone already. Trouble is, Brady is back and hanging around the couple too. Well, mostly Sam. Mostly Sam’s left shoulder.

Dean should have probably told Sam that his best friend is a demon, but he didn’t want to traumatize the kid further. At least not tonight. He’s planning on keeping an eye out for Brady, making sure Sam stays out of trouble (or trouble stays out of Sam).

A braying sound gets his attention.

Think of the Devil. Brady has an arm around Sam’s waist and his face is tucked against Sam’s arm as though that’ll muffle his stupid donkey-laugh. Spoiler alert: it doesn’t, and now Dean is stuck staring at the literal demon whispering in his brother’s ear.

“I didn’t think you’d take it so seriously,” a voice says to his left.

Dean had felt the presence creep up behind him, but he hadn’t expected it to be Mrs Moore.

“Take what so seriously?”

“The assignment.” She gestures in Sam’s general direction. “Looking jealous and everything? I have to admit, seeing you two arrive five minutes apart was quite entertaining, but keeping up the emotional side of the charade is really going the extra mile.”

She pats his shoulder gently.

“You did good, Mr Smith. I’m sorry I doubted you.”

Dean almost snorts into the tray he’s carrying. He waits for the bout of bitter laughter choking his throat out to pass, and then nods.

“Would you care for a canape?” he says, trying to convey a mutual understanding just with his tone.

She smiles a little. It makes her look a lot kinder. “Sure.”

*

Between his trips to the kitchen and the number of people wandering around the ground floor of the house, it takes Dean a full ten minutes to realize he hasn’t seen Sam’s head above the crowd for a while.

At first he tells himself Sam went to the bathroom.

He goes back to the kitchen for a tray of champagne flutes and downs one, wishing it was beer.

“Getting in the party spirit, huh?” Jo mutters at him.

“Where’s Gordon?” Dean mutters back.

“Stepped out for a smoke, I think,” Stella calls from the other end of the room. That chick has bat-hearing.

Dean goes back out into the fray and locates Brady easily; he’s talking to an obviously unimpressed Jessica.

Both Mr and Mrs Moore are entertaining a group sat around the couches, and Sam’s not with them so Dean doesn’t spare that corner of the room another glance.

Bela is also easy to locate, and appears to be getting hit on by an older couple. Or maybe she’s locking down one of her side-business antique deals, it’s hard to tell.

Sam’s still not around.

Can’t hurt to make sure he didn’t fall into the toilet.

Dean drops his tray unceremoniously onto a tea-table and grabs the first staff member he lays eyes on, who happens to be Tamara.

“Have you seen Sam?”

She clicks her headset off before turning to answer him.

“Yeah. He came looking for you in the kitchen a while ago, why?”

Dean heads back to the kitchen even though he’s sure he didn’t see Sam when he was there just now, nor has he seen a tall figure going back there since.

“Anyone seen the belle of the ball?”

“You mean Sam?” Stella replies.

“’Course.”

“Nope.” She pops the ‘p’ in a way that flares a surge of irrational violence in Dean.

He shoulders his way back out to the corridor where Sam isn’t, eyes up the two dudes waiting to go into the guest bathroom and decides he’ll wait a few more minutes before breaking the door down to look for Sam in there.

Except right as he thinks that, the door opens and out comes the Silicon Valley CEO. So Sam’s definitely not downstairs.

Undeniably nervous, Dean loosens his stupid bowtie and climbs upstairs, two steps at a time.

Upstairs looks empty, but he double checks each room. The house is freaking huge and there’s a lot of ground to cover. There are plenty of places where Sam could be hiding, or maybe just chilling out to take a breath away from the oppressive ambience downstairs.

He’s not in any of the guest rooms, and Dean unlocks each one just in case.

He’s not in any of the main rooms.

He’s not in any of the upstairs bathrooms.

He’s not in the house, period.

Dean nearly cracks his neck sprinting back downstairs, and he ignores Jo’s “ _Dean_ ,” on his way outside. What if Sam freaked out about what they just did after all, and fled into the night to escape the horror of his life choices? What if Brady called one of his buddies and had Sam carted off right under Dean’s nose. What if Bela’s hellhoud showed up a couple of hours early and smelled something demonic in Sam it liked better than its prey?

What if Sam has already been hurt and it’s Dean’s fault and he could have prevented it but didn’t.

It’s drizzling rain outside, which doesn’t help visibility, but at least it’s not pouring. Dean shuts the huge door behind him, shoots off a quick text to Jo that just says ‘ _find Sam’_ as both an order and an explanation, and turns on the flashlight app. He doesn’t give a shit if the water damages the screen.

The lawn is deserted and a slippery run around the house doesn’t turn up anything either. Gordon must have gone back inside after his smoke, and it’s just... freaking empty. The whole place. Tamara put the bellboy on serving duty as well, so no one’s at the door to greet the guests two hours into the party; everyone who’d been invited is accounted for.

Dean does another lap around the house, with a foray into the garden this time. The surroundings are well-lit and there’s a state of the art security system, so it’d be hard to hide a dude Sam’s size anywhere near.

“Sam?” he calls over the rain. “Sam!”

His hand starts to buzz when he passes the side-door that exits out of the kitchen for the second time.

Slippery, clumsy-cold fingers take three attempts to answer the phone, but finally he is able to hold it between his ear and his shoulder.

“Hello? Jo? Did you find—“

“ _Hello? Dean_?”

It’s a woman, but he can’t quite place the voice. “Who is this?”

“ _Dean Smith_?”

“Who is this?”

“ _Olivia. Lowry? Ellen said you called_.”

Goddamn. Talk about shitty timing. “Yeah. Okay, shit, yeah, this is Dean.”

“ _Ellen said you were asking about Bela Talbot_.” The crackling static makes her syllables come and go, but it’s easy to understand the gist of what she’s saying.

“Yeah. She mentioned you ran into her?”

“ _I ran into one Bela Lugosi about a year back. No way that was her real name, of course, but me n’ Gordon were working a job in Chicago and she dinged my radar_ —“

“Wait. Who’s... Gordon who?”

“ _Gordon Walker. He’s another hunter. Anyway, Bela’s a bounty hunter from what I gathered, and she_ —“

“No, wait. Go back to—“

He doesn’t finish his sentence. There’s a creeping feeling in his gut, a sick kind of dread that tastes bitter in the back of his throat.

“ _What’s wrong? Smith_?”

He hangs up, and he knows. He just knows.

Bobby suggested it that first time, although he was wrong about the reason. Bela was right. Another hunter, after Sam. There was a dual reason Sam had to be kept safe, away. Not just demons.

Trigger-happy hunters who hear of a whiff of demonic and run to shoot first and figure ‘hey, screw the questions, they were probably evil anyway’.

Gordon Walker is going to kill his brother.

*

Improvisation is key.

_God, please let this work._

Sprinting back up to his room and down again without being stopped somehow works out, he suspects because something about his expression telegraphs his demand for a clear path and no distractions. He doesn’t run into Jo, and even though he sees Carl Moore’s appalled expression at his muddy footprints, the man doesn’t try to stop him.

Outside again, the sting of the cut on his palm shoots up his arm when he grips the horned figurehead of a tracking amulet he swiped from Bobby’s panic room a million years ago. At the time, he did it just because. Why not? It might be useful in a ransom case, he’d reasoned. Those always paid well.

He’d never ended up using it, but now it’s all he’s got.

 _The power of blood can’t be overstated_ , he thinks he overheard someone say once. They were drunk and possibly trying to chat-up Jo mid-shift, but let them have been right about this.

_Please. Please help me find Sam._

It’s his blood but it’s Sam’s blood too. Brothers. The link between them—it has to work. He has no fucking clue what’s supposed to happen but part of him was expecting a beam of light to explode out of his hand and make a giant arrow in the air that pointed in Sam’s direction.

He swings around in the dark, lost as to what to do next, arm extended towards the house—and feels the little token in his hand go unmistakably cold. Like he’s holding a spiky, chunky ice cube.

He swings around again, and the thing heats up.

Hot. Cold. Like the game.

He’ll take it.


	10. Nine

Gordon strapped Sam down to one of the columns on the gazebo.

The lights are still on but their glow is sinister in this context, fae.

“Gordon!” Dean yells. “Gordon, what the fuck are you doing?”

“Stay where you are, Dean!” Gordon calls back, a warning Dean doesn’t fully comprehend until he skids to a stop at the bottom of the steps (only three, three low wooden boards he could overtake so easily to get to Sam).

Gordon has ropes around Sam’s neck, his wrists and his ankles, and he also has a machete resting point-first against the fleshy spot right below Sam’s sternum. Sam’s suit jacket lies in a dark crumpled heap on the floor.

“Don’t move.”

The rain has picked up but the words are clear. Everything is suddenly, brutally clear.

There’s a pentagon drawn on the wooden boards, large enough that it practically covers the entire circular floor.

“I tried an exorcism first, as you can see,” Gordon says with a nod at his artwork. “It didn’t work. I’m sorry.”

“What are you... he’s not a demon.”

“Oh, Dean. He’s as good as.”

Gordon shifts his weight ever so slightly and Sam winces, seemingly trying to plaster himself against the surface behind him. His eyes are screwed shut, but that’s not going to help him disappear.

“Bela Talbot told me about this boy a while ago in exchange for a few of my trinkets. He has demon blood in him, did you know that?”

At that, Sam’s eyes fly open.

“How does she know that?”

“ _You_ knew?” Dean croaks, stomach sinking. He’d hoped to spare Sam that. At least that.

“The woman told me,” Sam pants. “The demon with the white eyes, she said... just a few drops had been enough. But I don’t...” he turns to Gordon again. “Gordon, please, I’d never...”

“Sam, I know you think that now.” Gordon sounds truly regretful, even as his knife draws a little circle of red that blooms in the wet white fabric of Sam’s shirt. Dean’s hazy on his high school anatomy but he knows the edge of Sam’s heart is less than an inch away from the blade. “But once a monster, always a monster, I’m sorry. You’re supposed to disable the bomb before it goes off, not after.”

“Gordon, _no_ —“ Dean gasps, shaking with useless energy and desperation. “He won’t, you’re making a mistake, he’s good—“

“For now.” There’s no doubt in Gordon’s voice. “I’d hoped to spare you from it, Dean. Didn’t want you to witness this.”

“Don’t, _don’t_ —“

His foot on the soggy wood creaks loudly and Gordon raises his other hand in warning.

“I have to.”

Sam is looking at Gordon with something akin to doubt in his eyes now, as if the fervor of Gordon’s conviction is making him hesitate.

“No, Sam, he’s wrong, listen to me—“

A blast of gunfire cuts Dean off.

Dean and Gordon freeze but Sam flinches, which earns him another slice of red aimed towards his stomach.

“What the—“

“Gordon. Unhand the seven-foot-tall law student, please.”

Holy shit.

Tamara steps right past Dean and climbs onto the structure with a gun in her hand and not a glance to spare Dean’s way.

_Is everyone in the Moore estate a fucking hunter?_

“I can’t let you kill him Gordon, I’m sorry.”

Gordon, to his credit, doesn’t look afraid. He barely looks surprised.

“You know what he is, though.”

“Yes.” She cocks the pistol again and aims it square at Gordon’s face. “But I owe someone a favor and she needs him alive.”

“Talbot?”

She nods.

“I think she told you because she underestimated your bloodlust. Or she overestimated your vampire thing, didn’t expect you to branch out so fast. I’m undecided.”

While they banter, the front of Sam’s shirt is soaked crimson, and Dean isn’t going to stand by and let that happen.

Except, when he tries to move again he gets a gun to the small of his back.

“You said you’d act as my backup, Walker,” Bela’s accent clips the words and is instantly recognisable.

“And I did, the entire week. Did a whiff of hellhound get you?”

“Sam Winchester is my insurance. Without him, there _is_ no me to back up. You get that?”

“You can’t let him live.”

“I need to use him first. You can kill him later if you really want to.”

The muzzle of her gun presses into Dean’s spine.

The knife in his shoe is all he’s got to get out of this but Bela must be really nervous about her upcoming hellfire debut, because she made a crucial mistake.

Dean twists and grabs her wrist, uses their combined momentum to reverse their positions and Bela was standing too close to yank away in time, because in two seconds he’s got her pinned in his arms, the knife at her throat and the gun digging into her waist.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Bela, this isn’t amateur hour,” Tamara sighs.

Dean walks Bela up the three short steps and retakes stock of the scene.

Gordon still has the machete to Sam’s diaphragm, and they are by the column directly in in front of the bench. Tamara is standing to the right side of the bench with a gun to Gordon, and Dean and Bela complete the triangle on the left side, closest to the opening of the little enclosure and therefore to the steps.

“Now this is what I call a party!”

Of course, that’s when Brady strolls up to the scene.

Dean feels Bela shiver in his arms, and knows it’s not because her green shawl fell in the mud when he wrestled the gun out of her hands.

A loud yip and a growl follow the demon’s announcement.

At _that_ , Bela goes statue-still.

“If I do say so myself... my timing is _spectacular_.”

He hops up the stairs and encounters the devil’s trap barrier, which forces him to stand at the very edge of the top step. Dean hadn’t been sure this was the type of trap that kept demons out, as well as in. He surreptitiously makes sure he and Bela are standing within the circle around the pentagon, and shuffles a little to be completely certain. He still hates Bela Talbot’s fucking guts, but all it takes is the memory of his brother’s voice— _obviously we’re not gonna leave her to die_ —to remember he’s not going to let her be ripped apart and dragged to hell.

“Hey, why is this a humans-only party? Uh--I mean, practically-humans. Sorry Sam.” He winks at Sam genially and turns to Dean and Bela. “Well aren’t you in a pickle. I thought we had an understanding, Talbot.”

“We do. The trap can be erased.” Her voice is firm even with Dean’s knife modulating the syllables through her windpipe. “As soon as you tell me why your pet is here.”

“Oh hey, the contract stands right up until it’s broken. For now, your one-way ticket is non-refundable.”

“I got you the younger Winchester, and I got you the insurance to make sure he does as told.”

“Yes, and a nice touch that was, bringing the older Winchester in. Even I couldn’t have foreseen such a wonderfully fucked up little mess with these two, and I’m an optimist.” Brady reaches out a hand behind himself to pet an invisible head at his shoulder level. Unbelievably, steam appears in the air where the beast’s muzzle must be.

Dean’s not so far from shivering himself, and he isn’t the one the Hellhound is after.

“But as you well know, Lilith will have to decide for herself whether she thinks it’s a fair trade. I’m the salesman; she’s the boss, Talbot. You knew that from the start.”

“What is she waiting for, then?” Tamara interjects, although some of the confidence has faded from her voice. The gun she was pointing at Gordon’s head has flagged down to point at his knees. “Where is Lilith?”

Gordon himself has dropped the machete to Sam’s belly button, and also appears focused on the new threat.

Sam’s eyes are wide open now.

A flash of lightning suddenly pierces the night, and Dean sees—they all see the woman appear on the bench between one beat and the next. She seems to be lounging in a white party-dress that looks bizarrely familiar...

Until Dean gets it.

She’s wearing the model from the cover of Premier Bride, and the model is wearing the wedding dress from the 2005 summer issue. The only dress Jessica admitted she could see herself in, _with someone who saw me_ —

“Good evening, everybody.” Her voice is jarringly soft.

She glances down at the Devil’s trap and rolls her eyes... all the way to the back of her head. Holy shit that’s creepy.

How did Sam turn out so well with that image in his dreams from a young age?

“Okay, first of all...” she snaps her fingers and the wood cracks and splinters, a frisson of sparks signaling the breaking of the magical seal. There goes that safety-feature.

The Hellhound at Brady’s side barks, louder than thunder.

“Down, boy,” Lilith sing-songs. She looks up at Bela, then at Dean over Bela’s shoulder. “Pleasure to meet you, Dean. But you’re not even the main character in your own life, so imagine how little you matter in this story.”

She turns to Sam.

“Sam. You matter. Now... you have ten seconds to convince me my time here is worth something, and Miss Talbot deserves to live. Are you going to do as I say?”

Sam swallows, and Gordon finally lowers his machete completely.

 _Lie_ , Dean thinks loudly at him. _Lie and say yes. For the love of God, Sam, please_ —

“And you won’t hurt him? If I do what you want, if I... give in to the darkness, or whatever. You’ll let Dean go?”

Oh no. It’s worse than Dean had hoped.

Because Sam’s saying yes, but he’s also _telling the truth_.

“Sure, Sam. If you unlock your inner self, I’ll let you decide what gets done to your brother, every step of the way.”

Sam nods slowly, chest heaving. “Okay then. Yes.”

Lilith smiles broadly.

The Hellhound’s growling and pawing gets louder; it sounds angry. Angrier.

“I said down, boy. You’ll get another victim soon enough.” She eyes Bela up and down. “This one doesn’t have much substance to her, anyway. She’d taste chewy with sadness and desperation, not enough evil in her flesh for a decent meal.”

Lilith gets up from the bench and saunters over to Bela herself, and consequently to Dean, too.

“Ready to seal the deal, sugar?” she whispers. “Or unseal it, as it were?”

Bela nods, and Dean lets her extricate herself from his hold.

The two women face each other for a moment, and then Lilith’s eyes go white again and she wrenches Bela’s head forward in a deep kiss.

The Hellhound howls, ear-bustingly loud and long, right up until it abruptly stops. Dean couldn’t see it in the first place, but somehow he can still tell it’s no longer there.

Bela has silent tear-tracks down her cheeks by the time Lilith pushes her away, wiping her mouth with some distaste.

“You pitiful little creature. Ugh.” She turns back to Sam and walks up to him quickly, as though she’s already forgotten Bela exists. “I hope our deal washes that taste from my mouth, Sam. You should be extra-spicy after the kind of sin your body’s seen tonight, hm?”

"Wait. All we had was a verbal agreement."

Lilith pauses. "Excuse me?"

"You should have kissed me first. Otherwise our non-existent contract is void, since you brokered the cessation of Bela's contract before getting a sealed agreement with me. I'm not beholden to it."

Hot pride flares in Dean's chest, but of course Lilith is a demon. Demons see rules the way Captain Barbossa sees rules.

As more... guidelines.

"My, my. Fancy lawyer talk." She giggles. Then she grabs Sam's chin and tilts it down, and Sam, roped and tied as he is, has no way to fight her hold. "Do you have any idea how powerful I am, Samuel? You truly believed I'd expect to have your full consent for this transaction?" 

“No—“ Dean starts, but his protest gets cut off.

Several things happen at once.

Jo leaps up from behind the wood balustrade and throws a hex-bag at Brady which blows him teen feet out into the grass; Bela takes a serrated knife out of her previously hidden ankle-sheath and tosses it to Tamara, who kicks the knife at Gordon; but it skids in someone’s blood and flies Dean’s way instead; Lilith lets go of Sam just in time—

In time for Dean to careen into her, blade-first, and sink the knife into her stomach.

*

Dean comes to with grass tickling his cheek, and feeling... moist. It’s not pleasant.

Also the familiar heavy feeling of a concussion is hammering at his temples.

He blinks open his eyes and sits up, world tilting around him. He sees the gazebo and it looks intact, but Gordon, Tamara, Jo, Brady, Bela... they’ve all gone. It’s daytime. Sort of. Dawn is breaking, anyway; everything looks unreal and blueish—although that could be the concussion.

He struggles to his feet because the most important person is Sam, and he’s no longer tied to the column. He’s easy to spot, though, especially once Dean has managed the steps back up into the structure. Someone laid Sam down on the bench, and he’s way too large to fit in it so his legs dangle to the side. His obvious breathing is the only thing that keeps Dean from breaking down then and there.

 _Buzzing_.

Dean’s phone is ringing.

“’Lo?”

“ _Dean. It’s Jo_.”

“Jo. What the... where are you?”

“ _Back at the house. Lilith blew up but we couldn’t use Bela’s ancient dagger of the Kurds on Brady, we had to exorcise him and save the vessel. Also, we had to come up for excuses for our absences_.”

“And you just left Sam’n’me out here?”

“ _We checked you out first_!” She still sounds a little guilty. “ _Figured your excuse was, uh, kinda self-explanatory_?”

A pause.

“ _It was Jessica’s idea, actually. Not that she knows anything supernatural went down—I don’t think_.”

Dean hangs up.

Sam is stirring.

“Hey.”

His eyes take a couple of droopy attempts to open. “Hey.”

Dean drops to his knees and pops the middle buttons of Sam’s shirt—but someone’s already bandaged the cuts there. So maybe he won’t kill Gordon after all.

“How are you feeling?”

“Beat up. But I’ll live.” He starts to sit up and Dean rushes to help him, hands under his armpits to ease the strain on Sam’s back.

He’s never looked worse off or more appealing than he does in this moment. Dean did this to him. The blood and the suffering and the horror of it all...

And then Sam smiles.

“Are _you_ okay?”

“I’ll live,” Dean parrots back, a little breathless. Maybe.

“M’not gonna marry Jess, I don’t think.”

“Oh.” That comes out of left field. “O-okay.”

Sam looks in the general direction of the house and heaves a huge sigh. "I know she'll understand, I just don't know how this will go down with her parents."

"They'll live as well, I'm pretty sure. I was told in no uncertain terms to get into your pants. Or at least make you want in mine, big time."

Sam blinks. "Wait, seriously?"

"Oh yeah. Not that I needed much extra motivation, but..." And then Dean gets an idea. “Hey. You wanna do something crazy? Crazier?”

Sam squints up at him, as the glow of dawn is slowly becoming the brightness of morning. With the way the gazebo's intricate flowery roof filters the rays of light, Sam's eyes look green; almost as green as Dean's. The first and only thing Dean recognizes as a shared feature.

“You’re not gonna ask me to run away with you, are you?”

The tentative smile that had been forming on Dean’s face falls off. “I... no. You're right. That would be weird—“

“I want you to.”

Dean freezes. "You want me to ask, or you want to say 'yes' after I do?"

"Either. Both."

“You...okay. Shit. But how are we...?” he doesn’t let himself finish the thought. How do they do this? Run away as what? As brothers? As friends? They will never be friends, does Sam understand that Dean can never be his friend?

“Jess will understand. I’ll call her in a bit, make sure we arrange to meet up so I can get Bones back. I just... if you want to. I think... it's not just that I don't want to deal with whatever clusterfuck is waiting for us back there. I think I’d like to go with you.”

Dean nods slowly despite the panic inside. “We can do that.” Because he’ll do whatever Sam asks, but what if Sam never realizes that there is no limit to what Dean will give him? "I'll get blamed for stealing you away from the girl of the house, they'll throw the word 'rogue' around a lot, I've found that tends to happen, and you'll just have to accept it..."

"I can live with that." Sam’s smile comes back; a soft, fond thing, and he reaches up, up until his large hand is on the back of Dean’s head.

And then he tugs Dean down, down, until their lips are pressed together, and all the noise and all the doubt and all the fear in Dean’s head go instantly, blissfully quiet.


	11. Epilogue

“Bobby... this is Sam.”

To the excruciating embarrassment of everyone involved, Bobby cries.

*

“Ellen... this is Sam.”

For some reason Dean isn’t planning on analysing, _he’s_ the one who has to be excused when Sam meets the Roadhouse crew.

Jo, ever the unsung hero, finds him shotgunning beers with Ash in the back room and drags him back to Sam’s side again, and by that point he’s drunk enough that he can plaster himself to his boy’s big, steady frame and claim intoxication as the reason he keeps having to hide smiles into Sam’s shoulder.

*

“Hello, Sam.”

Dean fidgets nervously, fighting the urge to take Sam’s hand and get them the hell out of there. Missouri sees everything, perceives everything, knows... too much.

“Welcome back.” She smiles. “This dumbass missed you like you wouldn’t believe.”

“’Souri, _Christ_ —“ Dean groans.

“You were a pain in my ass, boy. Now, Sam, sit down with me for a bit, I wanna discuss the pattern of your visions while your man fetches us some lemonade from the kitchen.”

Dean ends up spending an entire minute with his head stuck in the fridge, trying to cool down and stop. Fucking. Smiling.

*

“Dean, when I said—ah, uh, when I—shit—“

Dean draws away from Sam’s dick with a slick pop.

“I’m sorry, would you like for me to stop and have a discussion about this? Because we can do that, if you want.”

Sam glares at him, looking flushed and gorgeous all spread out in the backseat of the Impala.

“I’m just saying that when I said you had a lot of making up to do, I didn’t mean it had to come in sexual currency. It’s been years...” Dean drops back down to mouth at the crease of Sam’s thigh. “Ah... it’s been... we have to make up for lost time and I’m going to need... time too, to—ah—“ Dean flicks his tongue out to lick Sam’s heavy balls again and grins into it. “Fuck, Dean, I’m trying to have an adult conversation here. I’m going to need time to adjust to this, and I’m sure you will too—“

“Mmhm, ‘course,” Dean says wetly, and pulls away again. “Just as soon as you admit mine’s the best car on the road.”

“I was just tryin’ to rile you up when I said those things, Dean, I didn’t mean anything by them... I fell in love with the car same as I...” he trails off, and Dean had stopped what he was doing to listen so it’s not because of him.

He waits.

“Same as you...?” he prompts.

“Ugh, you know what I was gonna say.”

“Oh no, I really need to hear it.”

“No you don’t.”

“‘Course I do.”

“Nu-huh.”

“Yeah-huh.”

He leans on his elbows. “Sam. C’mon.”

Sam twists away from him. “No!” He starts to scramble away, clearly trying to escape out the other door.

“Are you _chicken_?” Dean gasps. “Sam Wesson, esquire! Chicken?”

“You say it, then!”

“You say it first, asshole!”

They end up play-wrestling on the ground and covered in dirt. They have sex in a motel room a couple of towns over.

Dean feels better than fixed, better than good.

He feels like he was never broken.

 

 

Fin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has made it to the (OH SO CHEESY) end. If I made you smile even once, my day will have been made.  
> Of course, comments are treasured :)


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